


Back to One

by Shine (qshineq)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qshineq/pseuds/Shine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre, an actor, goes on a journey of self-discovery just as his show’s twenty year reunion gets underway. What he discovers about himself and about his four not-really friends leads to a complicated romance everyone but him saw coming twenty years in the making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

The reunion, they say, was never going to happen. At the tenth year anniversary, it had been Heero, drunk and high, arrested by the LAPD for driving his car into a tree in Santa Monica. More often than not, the tree won against oncoming traffic, but this was Heero. The big, majestic oak more than a hundred years in existence cracked in half. The car was a total wreck, but Heero prevailed with only minor cuts and bruises. He was arrested, spent 30 hours doing community service, and had his license suspended for a year. They cancelled at the eleventh hour with a hoard of unhappy fans in their wake.

In the fifteenth year, it had been Heero - again, unable to attend while recuperating just months after a drug overdose at the same swanky rehab facility in La Jolla he escaped from time and again. The deal was five or none and in the end, there had been none.

This year was going to be the twentieth and in the days approaching, Quatre realized that this year, it was going to be him. Only two days shy of being released from the same rehab facility that had Heero running for the cliffs, he knew it was going to be a long shot. It would be difficult to stay clean once he was out of there. He tended to shy away from support groups. More specifically, he tended to shy away from people.

“I mean, I loved your show. I watched it when I was thirteen and couldn’t wait for midnight to watch the uncut version even though it was a school night.”

Quatre nodded, paying attention to his unmoving legs, not what was supposed to be the calming, crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean they overlooked. Not too far away, a number of surfers were getting wiped out.

“So will you be at the show’s reunion?”

“It’s not going to happen without me.”

The rule was five or none. The same rule applied every time.

“Look, I even have some pictures saved on my phone. I was so in love with you guys.”

Forcing himself to raise his head, Quatre looked at the ever-increasing cell phone screen size shoved a few inches too close to his face. He nodded. Giant robots with teenagers - that was not unexpected. Looking back on it, he felt a bit of nostalgia. They had been fifteen then, young and unknown. Not three years, two seasons and a movie after, it would be the role that defined their careers.

“That brings back memories,” Quatre murmured with a hoarse throat. He’d been screaming for a fix this morning. That twentieth year anniversary was never going to happen. “May I ask for some… water?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

At his age, it was inappropriate but that patronization was the price to pay for his inability to look half-decent at that time of day. Twenty years later and he already felt so old. Thinking back on it, those had been better days. He remembered being scouted at his parent’s country club by a television producer so fascinated with a boy literally named ‘four’. Rumor was it that the whole numbering system on the show had started with him. They kept his real name, of course, which was not always the best of ideas, especially for his now severely broken self-image. But he was not to suffer that alone. They found four others with names that fit that preposterous numbering system. For the show, five of them, along with the main female protagonist, got to use their real names. For at least two of them, it was damaging.

Heero Yuy had been the star of the show. The son of well known Hollywood actors, he came from acting royalty. Naturally, the show had been centered on him. Perhaps it was the pressure of living up to his forbearers or the anxiety of being placed in the spotlight when he didn’t want to be that undid him. Not a year after the release of the movie, he had gone on a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol. Typical of a washed-out childhood actor, he became a tabloid favorite. His arrest pictures were plastered and ridiculed all over just as the internet boom was beginning. Only Heero Yuy, the real person, had been damaged then. Heero Yuy, the main protagonist of the show, remained unblemished.

Duo Maxwell had always been the true star. His popularity with all the demographics made one wonder why he wasn’t instead made the leading man. A true rags-to-riches story, his upbeat personality and natural charm helped him get along with everyone and not before long; he became everyone’s first pick. Years following the end of the show, he received several offers and worked on movies exclusively. His career skyrocketed from there, along with accolades that ranged from most gorgeous man alive to Academy Award winning actor. He’d won it twice. The current buzz was that he’d win his third with his latest project.

Trowa Barton was an enigma. His background story was almost unbelievable. Supposedly having been discovered by his agent at a circus, he already had a burgeoning modeling career by then. The mystery was that no one knew if that really was his real name or whether it was simply his agent’s agenda. Even with the dawn of the internet, no one knew where he came from or anything else about him for that matter, but for all intents and purposes, it served him well and his top-notch agent made sure it stayed that way. Unlike Duo, his expertise after the show came in directing but like him, he was an Academy Award winner, one award away from matching Duo’s.

Wufei Chang’s story was somewhat less remarkable. Coming from a middle class family in Hong Kong, he had less of a background story and spent most of the show to himself. Aside from his marriage at such a tender age, nothing sparked the interest of people. Popularity wise, he was the opposite of Duo, earning him lesser roles in Hollywood. Despite being severely underrated, after the show’s end and his return to his homeland, he made several staring roles in action movies, becoming a star in his own right. One couldn’t count the number of movies he made in a year. If there was anything Wufei was, it was hard-working and though no awards came his way, he was highly sought with a high-earning career to show for.

Last but not least was Relena, currently going by Relena Maxwell. One would think it was a charity case that Duo would wed the most hated character on the show. Distantly related to a long line of Scandinavian royalty, people might as well call her princess. These days she is no longer the hated girl so insanely - to put it lightly - in love with Heero. These days she is one-half of the power couple that ruled Hollywood. Coming out of her shell, she beat both boys with four well-deserved Academy Awards under her belt. Her hobbies, which are most saintly in character, are third world country charities and carting around three endearing, always well-dressed children that the paparazzi did not fail to photograph.

Quatre Winner. Where was he in all this? That was a story soon to be told.

“How are you doing?”

“Go away.”

“Quatre, it’s me.”

He didn’t need to look up much less repeat his previous request. All of a sudden, those surfers in the beach looked more interesting.

“Ah well, time to get this down on the blue bird and tell the fans Duo Maxwell is doing everything in his power to make this happen.”

“Don’t tweet about me.”

It was quiet for a long moment, a long moment he wished that his glass of water would make an appearance before him. His throat was parched and the ocean air that was supposed to relieve his aching throat did none of that. But he digressed. Just take Duo away and it could possibly all be better.

“Here’s your water.” On cue, Duo offered a clear glass of liquid his way.

“Thanks.”

“Just making sure you’re up and ready for the reunion is all,” Duo reasoned, taking the seat next to him to watch the ocean waves. No doubt he had a house of his own overlooking the Pacific. High-paying jobs made it easy that way.

“I’m not.”

“It’s been twenty years. We owe it to the fans.”

Quatre sipped his water slowly. It was becoming increasingly difficult to talk and it was no less difficult to explain to Duo what his addiction entailed. He didn’t get better in one week. This was the type of thing that dragged over time. Going cold turkey was worse than death and only in death would he be pain free, but he held no interest in that.

“Look, Heero’s finally okay this year. I don’t know what’s happening with you, but I was really surprised when the news hit me. You’ve got no bills to pay, no mouths to feed. All you’ve got to do is take care of yourself. What happened to you?”

It was a not so subtle dig and Quatre knew that, he knew it the moment he heard Duo’s voice coming in to his room to greet him.

“We can’t all be pious philanthropists with acting careers to envy and children to dot over.”

“Well fuck, I’m going to leave if you start with that whole crap about feeling sorry for yourself. You made your own choices.”

“You might as well – leave, I mean.”

Quatre motioned to the door while sipping on his glass of water. Soon, he’d need something stronger, something along the lines of 151 proof.

“Jesus, Quatre! You actually _have_ a degree – in Economics, a master’s even. Daddy can get you a job anytime in the company and you did work for him for a while. You don’t need to stick with the whole acting thing if it isn’t getting you any roles. At least you have something to fall back on. The rest of us have to earn where we’re at.”

There it was again – Duo’s resentment of him coming fast and strong, very straightforward and cutting. He had gotten tired of those rags-to-riches vs. rich boy arguments over the years. Most people sided with Duo anyway. It was probably the reason why, after the show, they never really got along.

“Or is this about the stories they write about us? You know that I’ve got to deal with it too; especially Relena and you know what I mean. But alright, I get it. You’re not really making puppy eyes at Trowa every second of the day and he isn’t boning you—“

“Get out.”

He looked up at Duo for the first time, perching his wobbling glass of water on the thin balcony rail. It was going to fall over, he was sure, and he didn’t give a damn. The wind was starting to pick up and that didn’t help.

“Fine,” Duo said with a huff, an endearing huff most people would swoon over. Quatre was not in the mood for it. “But you better show up at the reunion. I’ll have my personal assistant call you the night before.”

“Good. Your assistant can call my assistant.”

“You hired an assistant?”

“No.”

“Then—“

“Exactly.”

Duo never took offense to anyone’s impolite responses and it was just as well. That was what made him such a likeable character. If there was going to be one out of the five with the best of personalities, it was always going to be Duo, except for that infuriating habit of his comparing each other’s lives. It was like a never-ending high school reunion. Unfortunately, one of those ugly reunions was going to happen soon.

It took another ten and a half days. When he returned to his empty condo, he felt glad to be home. Silence truly was a luxury after driving on the freeway for the better part of two hours. The traffic had, surprisingly, not been bad, but the attitude of the LA drivers, however, had been. Letting go of his wheeled suitcase on the foyer, he went straight for the bathroom for a well-deserved shower. The showers kept his mind off what he craved and if that was step one to becoming clean, he would take pleasure in doing it.

He was in the middle of washing the shampoo off his hair when he heard it, the doorbell announcing the arrival of an uninvited guest. He made three guesses, all family members, and in the end, just hoped and crossed his fingers that it wasn’t any of his sisters. He didn’t have twenty-nine of them - his dearest, still alive mother would never have survived it – but he still did have four of them and four was more than enough.

“I got the dog from your neighbor.” The face of Heero Yuy greeted him looking bored and uninterested. Nevertheless, the golden retriever next to Heero jumped up at him and it took all his control to keep the towel on his hips from dislodging. His next door neighbor was an older socialite and it would do no good to mistakenly flash her lest she keep on claiming he’d been seducing her ever since he’d moved in. Noam, his best friend, was definitely happy to see him, using his full height to rest his front paws on his bare shoulder before licking his face all over.

“I missed you too, buddy,” Quatre said between chuckles and attempts to dislodge his face from a long, wet tongue. If there was anything he missed about being away, it was this. He rubbed his favorite friend behind his floppy ears, enjoying the warmth and the inexplicable amounts of comfort the animal gave him.

“You have the body of a drug addict.”

Just as quickly, that bit of satisfaction ended.

“You would know. Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

“So I got you some groceries,” Heero said, revealing a too bright neon green reusable grocery bag on the hand that was not holding on to the dog’s leash.

“Please tell me it isn’t another one of those fad diets.”

“Of course not.”

Quatre reached into the bag to retrieve a bottle of vegetable juice with disgust. The next item was a bunch of green vegetables, vegetables he had trouble identifying offhand.

“Kale,” Heero said. “It’s all the rage these days.”

He nodded, took a bite of the leafy item then shrugged. It was fine. He was not averse to salad. Putting it back in the bag, he dug again, finding a bag of grains or something resembling grains. He read the label.

“Quinoa. It’s good for you.”

“Is this like that açaí berries fad?” he questioned, looking the bag over for instructions. “I don’t know how to cook this.”

The phone went off then and it was with quick steps that he reached for the contraption, making sure that it wouldn’t go straight to voicemail. There was this constant need to let people know he was fine.

“Hello,” he said before making a face and then adjusting the towel on his hips. “Yes, I know it’s four whole days earlier than what we agreed on. -- No, I don’t plan on going back today. I just drove back to LA-- I know you live only a couple of miles away. I’m sorry I didn’t drop by before leaving. -- No, please don’t tell dad I left early. He’ll tell mom then she’ll be worried. -- I had to, okay. We have this reunion thing I have to go to. -- Tomorrow. -- Twenty years.”

He spent another few minutes listening to her complaints wondering if he should have just blown Duo off and stuck with rehab. The facility had been nice, upscale and right next to the ocean. They gave him sleeping aids, muscle relaxants, that whole Zen exercise thing and a personal aide. True, he had been irritable but he had still been comfortable. But Duo had been right. It had been too long and since Heero was now the picture of health, they might as well have done it now.

“Okay. I love you too. Bye!”

“Sister?” Heero questioned. The front door was closed with the groceries on the kitchen counter. Heero was now lounging lazily on the sofa with his socked feet up. “You sure she won’t have someone hunt you down and drag you back to rehab?”

“Feet off the coffee table,” he said then, walking to his room to get dressed.

“So Duo managed to convince you,” Heero voiced a bit louder given their distance.

“No. Yes. How did you know?”

“Twitter.”

There was a sound of irritation followed by silence. Quatre left it at that. There was no use stopping Duo from doing what he wanted.

“So why _didn’t_ you visit your sister before coming back?”

He pulled his drawer open and retrieved the first shirt he could find. It was at this time that Noam trotted to the room to join him. Heero’s voice was loud, reaching the distance between the living room and his bedroom.

“Her husband thinks I’m gay and you could guess what a bad influence he thinks that would be to their two boys.”

Pulling his shirt down quickly cooling skin, he grabbed a pair of boxers next and put them on. The wet towel was tossed on the bed.

“Does your sister know?”

Quatre moved on over to the closet for some jeans and a hooded sweater. His ever present companion licked his hand.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m a bad example anyway with the drugs. You can’t have the uncle coming to their home looking the way I do.”

Heero did not respond to that, but minutes later padded into the room quietly. “You okay?” he asked with a frown that said a million things he wouldn’t voice.

Forced to do a quick self-examination, he looked at his hands. They were shaking. It took seconds to realize that it wasn’t just his hands. His whole body was shaking and Noam was whining next to him. He really did look that bad and this was supposed to be a good day. He’d just gotten out of rehab a couple of hours ago. It couldn’t have been this fast.

“You might want to stay in today,” Heero suggested, directing a thumb at the unoccupied bed. “Trust me. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

Sliding down the side of his closet was the best he could do to steel himself as every bit of muscle in his body felt like it was contracting in all the wrong ways. Even his head could not escape the onslaught. He needed it gone stat and the only way was with opiates he currently had no access to. Noam sat next to him, placing his two front paws on his upper thighs. Heero left the room then, coming back a few minutes later with a glass of water.

“Hydration might help,” was his recommendation as he put a straw to his lips. “It helped me anyway.”

Nodding and partial sips was the only thing he could do by then. It was getting cold quickly but he was sweating and he couldn’t help himself from scratching his scalp insistently. All he could think of to keep his mind off what he needed for relief was that it was definitely the right decision to keep away from his nephews.

“Duo can’t always get what he wants,” Heero voiced, sitting next to him on the carpeted floor. “I’ll drive you back to La Jolla if you want.”

“Do you have any?” Quatre asked then promptly took it back. “I’m sorry.”

Whether he was offended or not, Heero did not give any indication of it. Neither did he offer any of the illegal substances Quatre was seeking. He simply stood up, rubbing the also distressed dog on his head.

“Get to bed,” he instructed. “You’re not coming tomorrow. I’ll call to cancel.”

…So much for that twentieth year anniversary.


	2. Act Two

Quatre fidgeted in the corner, pulling on his shirt sleeves repeatedly. It had been a challenge getting ready, just to put some decent clothing on while being bossed around by Duo’s stylist. He knew that, despite the designer look they were going for, he looked like a bum with dark sunglasses at the wrong time of day. It was Hollywood, he reminded himself. For tonight, he would claim it was simply a fashion statement.

The red carpet walk was actually pretty dreadful. Having to deal with unfamiliar faces judging his recent stint in rehab was the worst. They all felt sorry for him, he could tell, and the cameramen took every chance they got to snap photos of his humiliation. It was supposed to be good publicity, he’d heard before, but all he could feel was absolute terror. He could only imagine the background story they did on him on the celebrity gossip shows the days leading up to the event.

It was cold in there, he noticed, as he scratched his head - now brunette rather than blond, another one of the stylist’s decisions. His scalp was all scratched up, he was told, and the darker color would hide that fact. The hair coloring product had been hell on his damaged scalp, but the stylist would have none of his complaints since they were going for a certain look. He’d wanted to ask if that change would also somehow help his gaunt look, but he didn’t want to be overdramatic.

“Looking good, Quat.” Duo approached him with all smiles and a shock of short blond hair atop his head. He didn’t ask, but he’d heard from the red carpet interview that it was for a movie he was filming. Over the years, that hair of his had gone through all sorts of transformations. Quatre’s excuse had been far less sensational. He told them he was simply going for a new look and that was that.

“Yeah.”

“Glad you could make it.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, testing how far he could go before running for the bathroom to hide. They weren’t done taking pictures of them and knowing Duo, he’d want five of them in different configurations to use as fan fodder. If he could help it, this was never happening again.

“Looks like all the guys are here now. Let’s go greet them. And give the fans a little love. Go stand next to Trowa.”

Quatre knew he was facing the inevitable, but that didn’t mean that he did not have the right to keep himself out of sight. He followed Duo but hunched his back and shrank into himself as best he could to keep a low profile.

He did his best to smile. He was sure he was doing it well as his sunglasses protected his eyeballs from the onslaught of flashes caused by the cameras. Like an obedient school boy, he stood next to Trowa, diligently following the number scheme. They asked questions and he answered. When it was over, he made a beeline for the bathroom. The nausea hit him somewhere between a question about future movie projects and a question about his decision to resign as a junior executive of his father’s company.

Throwing up the day’s meals was not a pretty sight. The one nice, crisp, green kale purchased by Heero the day before made a sickening exit from his throat together with now indistinguishable cherry red tomatoes and shredded carrots. He could hold nothing down the past half day and thought, belatedly, of how withdrawal was such a pain. Not for the first time in two days, he was raring for a fix.

It took a while for him to settle down and clean himself up enough to be presentable once again. Gargling water was the best he could do to rid his mouth of the rancid taste and smell. He looked at himself in the mirror. His sunglasses remained unused on the counter as he frowned. Heero was right. He shouldn’t have come. They really should have cancelled. It was awkward, as awkward as you could get with four guys you barely knew with the only shared similarity of having been on the same show twenty years ago. He could honestly say that he didn’t consider them acquaintances even, except for Heero, who occasionally showed up at his door for some unknown reason. There was nothing to discuss really, but the fans expected far more. They were supposed to be buddies. He was expected to be constantly hovering around Trowa. He could only feel embarrassed for the other.

Exiting the bathroom truly was a burden and he didn’t know if he should have just made a quick exit once all the cameras were once again trained on Duo and his lovely wife. The only problem was that Heero drove him there. They’d shared a car. He didn’t own a cell phone either so there was no way to call for a cab unless he borrowed someone else’s phone. If he did that, someone would catch wind of his plans of escape. He was stuck there for as long as Duo monopolized Heero and Duo did his best to do that - for the fans, he supposed. It was always for the fans.

He stared off in their direction. The commotion over there was a bit alarming, but true to character, Heero remained unfazed, even when Duo gave him a peck on the cheek. Relena was giving the fans the royal treatment too, joining in on her husband’s fun.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re avoiding me.”

He felt it more than heard it, the hot breath too close to the back of his neck. Trowa had had enough of his evasion and appeared miraculously right behind him.

“I, uh--”

There was really nothing to say so he stopped there. He continued to stare off at the more famous group, refusing to acknowledge what he knew would cause a ruckus next. If anyone noticed, they’d be the next pair of targeted victims. These were one of those times he wished he had Wufei’s lack of popularity.

“Don’t worry,” Trowa said, coming up next to him before nodding toward the three stars he was staring at. “You’re still the better blond.”

Quatre looked down at his feet, unable to come up with something to say. Trowa might as well have been a stranger asking him about the weather. He touched his sunglasses just to make sure they were still there.

Not one minute later, someone caught wind of their proximity and not a second later, the cameras were trained on them. Thankfully, Trowa did none of the flirtations Duo had displayed, simply standing next to him to answer questions. He was more amiable than Quatre had assumed, graciously responding when asked, even dropping playful jokes every now and then. Quatre only responded when asked, not adding any bit of information to encourage a more even exchange. They would have to deal with his reluctance, he decided, since he really was not in the proper condition to be out and about. When the questions died down, Trowa addressed him once again.

“Want to go out to get some air?” he offered.

Quatre nodded then led the way.

The oft happening Santa Ana winds was nowhere to be found that day, leaving only gentle wisps of wind blowing their hair. Quatre ran a hand through his now dark tresses, fighting the urge to scratch at his scalp in fear of causing more damage. He waited for Trowa to start talking if he wanted to, but didn’t offer any indication of his willingness to participate. Trowa was supposed to be the more reserved man, but twenty years was a long time and change was inevitable.

“You colored your hair,” he started. Quatre was surprised he didn’t start with the addiction.

“Yeah.”

He was grateful for the opening topic, but what excuse was there really to give about the hair? If he talked about the scratches on his head then he’d have to talk about the addiction. He didn’t want to talk about the addiction. He’d done enough of that the whole night.

“I honestly prefer your natural coloring, but you still look good.”

They were thirty-five, considered old fogies to most youngsters. At that age, most people were married, possibly divorced - more than once, accomplished, with proper jobs and careers, with offspring and something to show for. All Quatre had going for him was an association to a long ago show and a string of failures worthy of a true Hollywood victim child actor.

“I liked your last movie,” Quatre offered, slipping his hands into his pockets. It prevented him from fidgeting.

“Are you saying that to start conversation or did you really watch it?”

“Everyone watched it.”

It won an Oscar. Of course he watched it. He was sure he voted for it under the best picture and best director category. He might have been in and out of reality, but he did take those guild awards seriously. He watched each and every nominated movie in the sanctuary of his condo while Noam offered comments in the forms of grunts, growls and barks. It was safe to say that Noam, too, enjoyed Trowa’s movie.

“That’s a rather cold answer, don’t you think?”

“Sorry.”

He looked down at his feet, not finding any sort of way to apologize for his brusqueness. That craving was there again, begging him to fulfill the desire. He was sure he’d gotten rid of his stash, but there might have been some he missed after the day he threw everything down the toilet bowl.

“Look! A secret rendezvous. How romantic!”

By the time he realized it, it was too late. Quatre didn’t have time to evade when they were immediately swallowed by the crowd. He breathed in deeply, breathed out even further and when he could no longer handle it, made a run for it. That night, he would find himself in the still busy streets of LA wandering on his own. It would take Heero three hours to find him, a good one hour too late to stop him. Quatre was high off heroin by the time he found him, grinning from ear to ear for the first time in a month. The reunion really did make a mess of things, but at least tonight he would feel safe and warm. Heero cursed at him the whole way home.

A few days later, he was back to the mess that was known as withdrawal. Heero had shown up at his front door again, offering to chauffer him around for the day. Quatre accepted the offer with a shrug, put on his shoes and requested to be driven to the bank. Heero didn’t ask what he was going to do there, just took the keys of the car that wasn’t his own and drove with no particular directions beforehand, only Quatre’s vague waves of left and right at every intersection. They made it eventually.

“When was the last time you had to go to the bank?”

“I don’t remember.”

Quatre scratched an itch on his arm. He was feeling it again today, the insufferable muscle spasms, but he’d been stuck in the house with nothing to do. He thought that he might as well have made himself useful.

“I’ll be quick.” He excused himself, moving up the line to the first available teller. Heero easily fell in step with him, never leaving his side.

“How may I help you today sir?”

“I need a check, just one.” He fumbled with his wallet, a slick piece of object in his uncoordinated hands. It took a few attempts to simply open it whilst the teller gave him an impatient wheeze of breath.

“I, I forgot to bring my debit card with me,” he said in semi-embarrassment. “Could you look up my account using my driver’s license?”

“I could try,” the teller answered with obvious exasperation. “Mr… Winner, is it? Give me a moment to pull up your account.”

Quatre tapped a finger repeatedly on the counter. What was supposed to be a rhythmic sound increased with intensity, causing the teller to stop what he was doing to take a quick breath of indignation.

“Will you please stop that?” he was told.

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you just need one check, not a whole checkbook? It’ll be cheaper.”

He shook his head before stuffing his hands into his hooded jacket. Heero addressed him then.

“Why do you need the one check?”

“I have to pay Duo for the stylist he paid to fix me up.”

“You know he won’t cash the check, right? It’s pointless to pay him if he offered.”

The teller gave him the requested item after a bit of waiting and a charge to his account, explaining to him the use of the check like a child, his speech delivered condescendingly and in clipped tones. Quatre nodded with every step.

“Excuse me,” Heero interrupted the transaction then, placing a hand flat on the counter. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” he questioned, sending a critical eye the teller’s way. “This guy owns the bank.”

Quatre felt the need to shrink away, looking down at his shoes and murmuring something to himself. Heero didn’t stop his reprimand just yet.

“Look, I know you might be having a bad day, but try not to take it out on the customers, especially not on the customer who actually pays your salary.”

Quatre pulled him aside quickly, not wanting to make more of a scene than they already did. The teller watched them move away with shocked eyes, not getting the chance to retort or offer an apology. It was better that way. He would rather not have been recognized. He immediately slipped his dark glasses on and pulled his hood up.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he reprimanded Heero.

“Sometimes it is.”

Not a few moments later, their scandalous scene didn’t look so bad when they heard an even worse argument three counters over.

“I just need to make the transfer from my overseas account. -- Yes, I called beforehand. -- No. I’ve told you already it’s an overseas account so no, it is not with this bank. -- Are you going to help me or not? -- You asked me how you could help me even before we started this transaction!”

Although he wanted to slip out of the bank unnoticed, he became captive to Heero’s hand that pulled none too gently on his hooded sweatshirt to bring them next to the irritated customer. Quatre hid his face in the hood even further.

“Wufei,” Heero greeted as they both joined him in front of the teller.

“Heero?”

“Yes.”

“And--”

“That’s Quatre under the hood and glasses,” Heero offered, yanking aforementioned hood off. Quatre looked down on the floor, saying nothing at all. “Having a problem too? The service here is awful.”

Wufei’s teller cleared her throat, but none of them acknowledged her.

“We’ll be working on a new film here in a few days,” Wufei explained, leaning on the counter, facing away from his teller. “I need to access my account from there to pay for the hotel and such. I can’t use credit. I’ve been here less than a week and already I’m the victim of identity theft.”

“Sounds rough,” Heero said and then pointed with a thumb to Quatre. “This guy here may look like a bum off the streets, but he owns the bank.”

Finding his shoes twice as interesting than moments before, Quatre made a deeper examination of the laces on his sneakers. They were turning dirty white.

“Seriously?”

“Quatre, help the man.”

Nodding his head, he came up to the teller, asking her if there was any way she could help in Wufei’s situation. He suggested calling the overseas bank to request authorization, then suggested calling the bank’s main office in New York to coordinate the transaction. It took close to an hour to do the whole deal with an ‘account specialist’ - as the badge’s title suggested - to get things done. By the time Wufei had wads of cash in his hands, he was looking at Quatre like he was his long lost friend.

“No problem,” he said, responding to the copious amounts of gratitude before pulling his hood back up and exiting the bank. He didn’t even wait for Heero to follow. Not a few moments later, Heero followed with their new friend in tow.

“I told him we’d give him a ride,” Heero said, pushing the button of the key to open the car. “He rides shotgun. Quatre, get in the back.”

Wufei’s blinks of confusion didn’t bother him as he entered the back passenger seat of the car, strapping himself in without being told then curling up on the side facing away from the window. He pulled his hood further over his face then adjusted his dark glasses to make sure they were still secure on his head.

“Withdrawal symptoms,” Heero explained after entering the vehicle. “You’ll have to forgive the unsociable behavior.”

He imagined Wufei was nodding at that, not commenting on his problem. He barely knew him as they shot very little scenes together, but Quatre decided that he already liked the guy. He didn’t pry.

The engine started before Heero pulled off the curb to drive them to a place only Quatre could guess. He turned the air conditioning intended for the back seats off and listened in on to their conversation.

“Nice car,” Wufei started. There was a snort before Heero responded.

“You think I’d own a Mercedes? This is Quatre’s.”

There was silence, the sound of the radio being turned on, stations being picked and settled on, followed by the next topic.

“Does he even know where Duo lives, to mail that check you were talking about?”

“I suppose he didn’t think that far ahead,” Heero said derisively. Quatre heard it but did not react. He had forgotten that most important part. His hand went for the blank check inside the pocket of his hoodie. He would have to hunt down that information somewhere.

“So it was Duo’s stylist who decided on the dark hair?”

Apparently, they’d talked about so many topics that he was unaware of on the way to the car.

“Maybe he wanted one blond at a time.”

What followed were peals of laughter. Quatre had never heard either of them laugh before so he was partly intrigued. He looked at the two men sitting in front of him. They seemed to be getting along, far better than what he expected.

“That look was ridiculous, even for a film. The braid back then was already pushing it. Don’t tell me he’s still trying to compete. Aren’t you both originally from New York?”

Wufei looked at the rear view mirror to address him. He uncurled and sat up to respond properly.

“Duo has his reasons,” Quatre defended, crossing his arms in the process. It wasn’t easy dealing with Duo, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand. “I’m from Manhattan. He’s from the Bronx.”

“Night and day,” Heero concluded, not taking his eyes away from the road. “We should grab something to eat.”

Quatre’s ears perked up.

“There’s this Greek chicken place on--”

 “Oh, _I_ _know_ where that is.” Heero cut him off, looking at his rear view mirror with a critical eye. Quatre did his best to keep it cool. “That’s in the bad part of town.”

“The chicken’s--”

“Good. I know. Their fries are good too, but I’m not taking you there, not even if you’re brunette. You won’t be there for the chicken anyway.”

Wufei turned in his seat to look behind and it was all Quatre could do to shy away from any looks of criticism. He kicked his shoes on the carpet. His craving was nowhere near going away. He’d held back all day and though he thought he’d gotten rid of the worst of it, it was coming back again.

“I’m Arab, you know.” He sulked in his seat.

“This is not a race issue - not taking you to the bad part of town,” Heero explained. “Besides, you are the whitest Arab in the city. It’s Fogo de Chão in Beverly Hills for you tonight, Blondie. Now shut up and treat your Chinese friend to a good meal in exchange for having to deal with your awful bank.”

Quatre scratched at his arms. Ditching Heero was always an option. Now, if only he could be functional enough to drive…

 


	3. Act Three

He had been flipping through the channels all night, finding that he was unable to sleep. The insomnia was getting worse by the day. When he did fall asleep, he found himself waking up to some sort of paralysis, up and awake but unable to move a limb as if trapped by an unknown force. Daylight was going to break in a couple of minutes but he was still flipping through the same stations, finally settling on reruns of an old TV show with a beach setting.

It was not hard to notice that there were ample breasts and long, shapely legs rounded off with hourglass figures on the women parading around the sand. Various stages of undress filled the screen as the voices turned into mere mumbles in his ears. He watched in rapt fascination with his hand hovering above his waistband. One of the women was gorgeous, his taste, with her long, flowing hair and too seductive lips. His hand hovered another second before pushing its way into his boxers, lightly stroking. It was still somewhat dark with only the light from the television illuminating the room. He lazily tested a firmer pull, throwing his head back in the process. She was speaking, or rather, they were speaking, a group of women on the beach. He hissed, doubling his efforts before a very male voice broke in. His eyes blinked open, not even realizing that he had closed them and stopped promptly. He looked at the screen, looked at the attractive man then withdrew his hands from where it had been. Noam suddenly appeared next to him on the sofa with a nuzzle.

“So much for that,” he muttered, grabbing the remote to change the channel. Noam barked then, pointing his nose at the television then grabbing his leash from the coffee table and dropping it in Quatre’s lap.

“I know. I know. You’re due for a walk,” he said, wrapping and unwrapping the leash around his arm. “So Malibu, huh? You want to take a walk in Malibu, you fancy canine? Fine. Let me shower and change first then we’ll go.”

The beach was actually not a bad idea. In the early morning, the place was abandoned of sun bathers but not of early morning joggers. Avoiding the paved jogging path, he chose instead to walk on the sand barefoot, carrying his shoes in one hand and hanging on to Noam’s leash on the other. It was a cool and bright morning, lending an excuse to his usual get-up of hooded sweatshirt, jeans and dark sunglasses. His dog trotted before him, very excited in his choice of destination. There was probably a rule somewhere that the dog walking was to be done away from the sand but he didn’t care. They both needed to be close to the water.

The water was cold on his feet as he stepped in slightly over the edge where the water met the sand. Despite that, it felt relaxing the way he watched the sand simultaneously bury his feet then reveal it with a quick splash of salty water. So hypnotized was he by the motion that he did not notice Noam’s excited jumps around him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that his pants were getting wet, but the waves, the soothing sounds of the waves not unlike in La Jolla were singing gently to him. For some reason, he believed it would finally put him into blissful, genuine sleep.

Engrossed with the sight of his own feet, he didn’t hear Noam yelp in warning before he was suddenly shoved on the same calming waters he’d been staring at. A jogger, a fellow rebel choosing to forego the paved pathway, had quite forcefully collided with him.

Quatre groaned, pushing his now wet hood away from his head and face. There was sand all over him and his sunglasses and shoes had fallen somewhere. It was safe to say that they were also wet, a casualty of the fall. He was fairly sure he hadn’t gotten in anyone’s way. Noam nudged him gently as he looked up to check who his attacker had been.

“I’m so sorry,” a very apologetic voice addressed him from above. “Quatre?”

He quickly looked back down, twisting around his tangled limbs to retrieve his glasses and shoes on the wet sand. Luckily, they hadn’t been taken away by the waves.

“Quatre, I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

The sand was so fascinating that time of day when the sun had just gone up over the horizon, tinting the skies a light orange.

“Here, let me help you up.”

Noam assisted as he was hauled easily up with one strong arm. Trowa had always been physically fit that way.

“It’s alright,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at the man who’d caused the accident.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

Finally raising his head from the bottom up, the first thing he noticed was Trowa’s shorts, his very short shorts.

“Let me check you.”

Trowa held his face in his hands, rubbing a cheek, tilting his head sideways and checking under his neck. Thank goodness he shaved that day.

“I’m sorry.”

Trowa was pretty buff for a guy usually behind the camera. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise considering he _had_ been a high fashion model. He’d even seen one of his runway shows a few years ago with his sister. What a way to make another guy feel self-conscious! Quatre curled in on himself with a hunch of his back and shoulders and shied away. He was a wet, emaciated mess with dark circles under his probably red eyes. He wasn’t at all worthy of being called a hirable actor.

“Look,” Trowa said, putting a hand behind his head and rubbing. “I live around here so why don’t I take you back to my place to shake off the sand and get some dryer clothes on.”

Expose his unworthy, sickly self to a Hollywood A-lister? Why not?

A second shower was not really what he needed, he concluded, as he swiped a towel up and down his newly bathed skin. In a few seconds, he would feel the dryness, the cracking of his skin like fissures on parched land. He dug around the bathroom drawers, finding lotion and applying it to his skin at the first opportunity. The bathroom was clean, he noticed, as he continually squeezed lotion out of the bottle. Trowa was also a ready host, having hung a paper bag in the doorknob with brand new clothes for him to change in to. He noted the receipt stapled to the bag indicating that the clothing had been purchased on the day not more than an hour ago. Quatre dressed in the new clothes, picked-up his wallet, keys and pen, stuffing the latter two in his pockets and retrieving cash from the wallet. He put the cash - the price of the clothing - on the bathroom counter and wrote a note of thanks on some toilet paper before retrieving another fifty from his wallet to cover his use of soap, shampoo and the nearly empty bottle of lotion. Satisfied, he exited the bathroom and padded his way to the living room where Trowa was waiting, also newly showered and dressed. Thank goodness for the disappearance of the very short shorts.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Quatre said, holding up the paper bag. There were still brand new socks and shoes in there to replace the ones that had gotten wet. “You didn’t have to.”

“Your clothes are at the cleaners. I’ll have them delivered to your place when they’re ready. I’ll need your address.”

Quatre nodded, retrieving the pen from his pocket and scribbling his address on the notepad right next to the phone. Noam joined him then, rubbing his face in his pant leg in greeting. He rubbed at the animal’s ear while writing.

“Your cell phone number could be useful too,” Trowa added, walking out of the living room and coming back in with a pot of coffee and two mugs.

“No cell,” Quatre said, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee he wouldn’t drink.

“Oh, and the cleaners found this in one of the pockets. They dried it off just in case.”

It was the check he’d gotten from the bank. He accepted it with a nod. Just how fast Trowa had gone to the store to buy clothing and the cleaners to drop off his clothes before showering and dressing himself was a mystery. Quatre was sure he didn’t spend half the day in the bathroom.

“Do you have Duo’s address?”

“He lives next door, a couple of miles away,” Trowa responded, slowly sipping the steaming liquid in his mug. “We could drop by if you want, but I’m sure he’s off filming in Bermuda.”

Quatre put his mug down and wrote the name Duo Maxwell on the check.

“How much do you think he pays his stylist?”

Trowa blinked but answered without further question.

“Considering Duo, maybe five, six thousand per job.”

Quatre wrote twice the latter amount on the check, signed it then handed it to Trowa.

“I would appreciate it if your could drop it off with him when you get the chance.”

Trowa took the once wet, now rumpled piece of paper and stared.

“You know this is too much, right?”

“That covers Heero too.”

His host for the morning looked like he was considering his options before folding the check and putting it in his pocket.

“Sorry for putting you out of your way.”

“Oh, no! No. It’s not a problem. He’s just next door like I said and _I_ was the one who put you out of your way this morning. Again, I’m really sorry. I was reading a script while running - not a very safe combination. I hope I didn’t break a bone anywhere.”

He shook his head. Trowa was a lot more talkative than he thought. Either that, or he was just filling in the void that Quatre left by acting like an uninterested guest. Noam had instantly taken a liking to the more talkative one, sniffing him all over before sitting next to him as if in approval.

“You smell like my toiletries,” Trowa said as he touched his side without warning. Quatre thought he jumped two feet back. Even Noam reacted, suddenly leaving his position next to Trowa and standing possessively before Quatre, effectively putting distance between them.

“Sorry,” Trowa chuckled, looking embarrassed. It was an amazing sight - Trowa Barton, man of composure, flustered beyond recognition. “I guess I was too hands-y.”

“It’s alright.”

Quatre stepped back further away from him to observe the grandeur of Trowa’s living space. He had a home characteristic of a celebrity with the vaulted ceilings and large living space. The open, airy feel was appropriate given it’s location overlooking the ocean. His awards, nowhere to be seen in the living room and considering Trowa’s modesty, were probably hidden away in a separate office space somewhere within the large expanse of the place. No doubt, Duo’s magnificent castle was just as big if not bigger.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

There was silence and it was uncomfortable. This signaled the chance for Quatre to leave.

“Look,” Trowa said, before he’d managed to give an excuse for a quick exit. “I’m being presumptuous here but if you’re looking for an acting gig, there’s this new movie I’m working on. We’re casting right now and I think you’d fit the role nicely. They’re doing the auditions on Monday, tomorrow, and I know that’s too little time to go over the script and prepare, but--”

“What’s the role?”

“Transvestite.”

Quatre looked down on the carpeted floor. It was Persian - very fancy. He hoped Trowa didn’t mind Noam’s recently sandy paws walking all over it.

“I didn’t mean to insult.”

“You didn’t.”

Looking back up at his host, he considered the offer. He was jobless at the moment and there was only so far his self-imposed limited bank funds could carry him what with the rent and car insurance payments coming in monthly. Heero wasn’t going to go grocery shopping for him forever. The man was also trying to make a living.

“Why--”

“You’re androgynous,” Trowa said, pinning him with those eyes of his. He remembered one of his billboard ads with just the face. His eyes were his selling point. The watch that was being advertised served its purpose. It was just an accessory.

“I look gay.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Thank you for the offer. I’ll read the script.”

Trowa looked disappointed, just like his sister did when she visited him at rehab. He didn’t want to see that look, especially avoided it if it was going to be coming from his mother’s face, but Trowa’s was just as bad. He reached for the script abandoned in the couch, assuming it was the same piece Trowa had been offering. It was probably not going to be his copy given the dog ears at the edges, the scribble of notes all over the place and post-it tabs appearing at the edge of the pages. Trowa worked hard on it, he could tell, and it was no wonder he had all those awards. He considered Duo’s words not for the first time. It really was time he earned his own living.

“I’m serious,” he repeated, putting the script back down on the couch. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

When he returned to his condo, his on again, off again home invader entered with him and went straight for the kitchen to devour a bowl of quinoa salad. Noam joined him in the kitchen, immediately interested in the home invader’s current diet fad. Quatre tossed the paper bag from Trowa’s place on his couch and padded his way to the kitchen. He was a bit hungry too.

“So you went out shopping?” Heero said, pointing to the bag on his couch then at his clothes. “Very decent, fancy decent.”

“Trowa’s taste. Not mine.”

He grabbed a spoon, stealing some of Heero’s food from the bowl. It was good - a mix of cranberries, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, beans, cilantro and quinoa. Not bad at all. He pinched a bit of lime juice into the section he was eating and had another spoonful. It was even better with the lime.

“I thought you weren’t close. You were avoiding him at the reunion.”

“We’re not. It was an accident.”

“That explains why he didn’t feed you.”

Trowa had no time to offer breakfast. Quatre had made sure of that when, after receiving a clean copy of the script, had made a run for it. His shoes had been untied and Noam had been excited during the escape from the long, winding road leading up to ornate, iron gates. He would have climbed the fence, but Trowa was nice enough to open it with a remote from his front door. The gardeners had been giving him a look then, wondering if he’d stolen something from the house and whether they should have stopped him or not. He was out of breath by the time he reached his parked car so far away, laughing at himself with Noam howling at their antics. If Trowa didn’t think he was a lunatic when he’d ran away during the reunion, he would now. He would still show up at the audition, however. He promised. That was going to be one tricky set.

“Anything good come out of it other than a new set of clothes?”

“He lives next door to Duo. I gave him the check.”

“I told you Duo’s not going to cash that thing. It’s a charitable cause for him.”

“I know.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve got an audition tomorrow.”

Heero stopped mid-bite, paused, then continued chewing. Quatre was sure he’d been on a lot of auditions recently and would jump at the opportunity for another chance to be rejected by a whole new casting crew. Their job was heartbreaking. You had to be used to rejection all the time because more often than not, somebody else would get the role. Only certain people fit certain roles. It wasn’t always a clear cut thing, not even if you tried your best. In Heero’s case, he’d been typecast a long time ago. Quatre could sympathize. Trowa wasn’t any better offering him that role earlier.

“I hope Trowa drove you at least.”

“No. I just bumped into him at the beach while walking Noam.”

“You are not driving yourself into a post if I could help it. You clean today?”

“Relax. I’m not following after you.”

There was silence then, except for Noam’s sudden whimpering. It was cruel. Quatre knew it the moment it slipped out of his tongue. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do - amend his statement or leave it at that. Either way, it had been what he’d been holding back from saying for so long, ever since Heero started showing up at his door.

“Since we’re being assholes at the moment…” Heero was the first to break the silence. “My mother wants to meet you, for lunch, this afternoon. You better be fucking polite in forty-five minutes because we are going to her house and I will not tolerate your ingrate, sorry ass attitude around her. Understood?”

Quatre nodded meekly, putting his spoon down. He would have to save his appetite for later.

“I still have to go over the script for tomorrow.”

Heero stood to retrieve two water bottles from the fridge, drinking one and handing one to him. He drank half the bottle before he put it down and said anything.

“You have time.” Heero was having none of his excuses. He probably knew Quatre was intimidated as all people were intimidated to meet his mother, a living legend. “You memorize your lines faster than anyone I know. Drink your water.”

“It’s not just the memorizing.”

“It’s the nerves. I know. I get so nervous that I throw up every time before an audition.”

Quatre uncapped his water bottle and sipped. That was surprising. Heero always looked unwavering and sure of himself even as he snorted crack from neatly formed lines on a coffee table. He seemed to have everything under control. His personality wasn’t far from what he was on their show years ago. Maybe that was part of the problem. That was part of Quatre’s problem too. They’d been accused of not acting, simply being themselves - all this because they used their own names - and when they _weren’t_ acting, it was considered a sham, a rejection of who they were. Quatre knew they would always think of him as a sissy gay boy with a tender, half-hearted approach. That show did more harm than good, but to their credit, there were only two true victims.

“I haven’t had an acting job since--”

“We were Gundam pilots?” Heero suggested, putting his empty bowl on the sink and rinsing it.

“It sounds ridiculous when you say it that way.”

“Not to the fans.”

Noam licked at Quatre’s hand, signaling him to his need for breakfast. Quatre retrieved a bowl and a bag of Kibbles ‘n Bits, pouring a good amount of food into his bowl. They both had a good workout this morning. He was sure Noam was just as hungry.

“So, my mom…”

“I don’t want to meet her.”

“Tough luck. I’ll get Noam’s collar. We’re leaving after he eats.”

With nothing but dread, Quatre left for the bathroom to make sure he actually looked presentable in Trowa’s purchases. They should have counted as Sunday clothes and they were brand new. He just needed to change out of his sneakers.

“And be prepared to be paired with an eligible lady… or gentleman or both,” Heero called out from the kitchen. “She doesn’t like leaving eligible bachelors single for long.”

Now that he thought about it, dread was not even close to what he was feeling.


	4. Act Four

The east gate of Bel Air was unimposing and decidedly subdued despite the wealth of the residents it held within. Quatre adjusted his sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the blinding Los Angeles sunshine hitting his face with no mercy. It was always sunny, more often than not, with a lack of clouds in the very blue sky. When Heero drove up to security at the gates, they recognized him immediately, phoning his mother to inform her that her son was on his way. Quatre attempted to curl up on his side, regretting the lack of hoodie to keep him safe from the outside world.

“You’re not a vampire. Stop trying to avoid the sun.”

It was too late to abandon Heero now. He knew he should have run, but Heero was a fast, merciless runner and he could have only gone so far before being caught. He scratched at his arms hidden underneath the crisp dress shirt he wore. He was in no condition to meet his mom. That was for sure.

When the house came to view, it did not get any better. Emilia Seymour, surprisingly the same legend who’d given birth to the guy next to him was already waiting at the front door. She looked lovely in her Sunday dress with her hair and make-up done to the nines. There probably wasn’t a day when anyone caught her not at her best appearance. She kissed both Heero’s cheeks when they exited the vehicle, receiving a kiss and tight hug from the son in return. All this went on while Quatre watched, uneasily, from the sidelines.

“This is Quatre Winner.”

Those were the only words he heard before she greeted him next. She was still beautiful even in her sixties, he noticed, elegant even as Quatre obligingly lifted her knuckles to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss. Her hands were soft and so delicately small, surely a feature enjoyed by the movie going public who’d always envied her gracefulness. Her nails were tinted red, he noted next, and her marriage finger was unadorned as were the rest of those refined digits.

He’d heard that Heero was her only son to her first marriage to a Japanese man, another acting legend. Quatre couldn’t quite remember the father’s name at the moment, sure that Heero had taken the father’s legal surname and not his anglicized stage name, but he wasn’t here and that was not the most pressing matter at the moment. What was most pressing were her eyes, the same shade of pretty blue as Heero’s, assessing him while his face was held between her soft hands. He couldn’t hide and she didn’t let him. It reminded him of Heero’s infuriating persistence as he looked everywhere but at her face, trying to shield his uncovered eyes from her scrutiny.

“You are a good looking man, Quatre. I don’t think I’ll be able to figure out why you’re still single. Then again, I can’t figure out why my Heero is also single.”

“I’m seeing someone, ma, remember? And save it for later. He’s hungry.”

Quatre blinked, processing that new bit of information. He really didn’t know that much about Heero aside from the constant amounts of aggravation he put him through every time he came over.

It wouldn’t take long for him to meet part of Heero’s family including two half-sisters, brothers-in-law and the girlfriend the mother seemed to prefer not to acknowledge. She was Japanese and at least ten years his junior. Carrying herself with a self-confident attitude with her bright and buzzed pink hair and her clearly out of place sun dress, he thought she looked familiar. He must have seen her in a movie somewhere or perhaps she was a co-star of his in one of his most recent projects.

The luncheon went smoothly, almost too similar to his parents’ country club lunches with pleasantries and politeness and a fair bit of showmanship. Heero never introduced his girlfriend and he didn’t bother asking. He had been too busy occupying the half-sisters and their husbands who were curious about snippets of the show Where Are They Now relating specifically to him. It made him uncomfortable to talk about himself because talking about himself would entail talking about his failures.

More merciful than the son had ever been, Emilia excused the both of them after dessert into a bright white atrium greenhouse filled with giant Ecuadorian roses, a too-elegant chandelier for the setting and comfortable, rustic seats in the middle.

“I invited you to thank you,” she said, motioning for him to sit with her. A young lady came in with a tray of coffee and tea which she left in the table before them, leaving them to their privacy without a word. “I wanted to thank you for saving my son.”

Quatre’s embarrassment was evident as he ducked his head into his chin, a motion his refined sisters would surely scold had they seen him perform it. He was no longer a child, but next to her and with that intense gaze, he was helpless.

“He told me you paid for his rehab,” she said, pouring a cup of tea for herself and motioning with her hand for his choice of beverage. He chose the coffee and sipped on it experimentally, enjoying the way the hot liquid lightly scorched his tongue.

“He’s still paying me back. I told him he didn’t have to.”

“I would disown him if he didn’t.” She looked stern as she said it, as stern as Heero always was with him whenever he was misbehaving. She took his hand then and ran a thumb through his knuckles, pausing a moment in her thoughts before continuing. “It isn’t just about the monetary support. You didn’t turn him down when he needed help and you have been good for him. I also must apologize for his bad influence.”

Alarm bells went off in Quatre’s head and he quickly corrected her assumptions, clearing Heero of any wrongdoing in his current affliction. She waved off his protest easily, shaking her head in the process. She stood then, placing his face between her now warmed hands once again.

“Heroin,” she said, gazing intently at his eyes. “I’m always right. I’ve done quite a few varieties in my time.”

Quatre nodded but looked away, unable to show anyone his weakness. She let go of his face and took a seat next to him once again. Probably sensing his unease, she moved on to a different topic.

“You look too young for your age,” she commented, sipping on her tea. “In this business, age is a valuable asset, most especially for the ladies.” If she resented that fact, she didn’t look it as she caressed blood red rose petals with her fingers. “My son isn’t faring any better, but then again, men gain a certain sort of dignified air with age.”

Quatre did not say anything, allowing her to say as she wished.

“Heero tells me you have an audition tomorrow and my invite has taken precious time from your practice.”

Waving his hands in front of him frantically, Quatre apologized for the misunderstanding. He stated he’d been anxious to meet her and that was the only reason he’d refused to begin with. Again, she waved him off, smiling a serene one as she gave him the one advice she thought necessary for him going in to the audition.

“There are too many actors for too few roles,” she said, dusting non-existent flecks off her dress. “As I always tell my children, Quatre, you’ve got to take the motherfucker by the balls.”

Whatever that advice was worth, it was not apparent as it was two weeks since his audition and there were no callbacks yet. He didn’t know if he’d done a good job or not, but it mattered very little compared to the heat wave the city was currently experiencing. Over ninety degrees outside, the thermostat informed him, and this was the cause of his profuse sweating upon his not very comfortable awakening. He took out his damp shirt and tossed it aside. This definitely called for air conditioning. He was in need of cold, artificial air. The whole place was stifling.

It was eight o’clock in the morning, he noted, on his way to the thermostat. Stopping before he’d made it all the way to the device that would be his salvation, the doorbell suddenly rang. It was the door or the thermostat. The door was closer and his neighbor might have been in need of help. Quatre opened it with minor annoyance.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I didn’t have your number.”

Trowa was a damn early riser, Quatre noted, all dressed and ready for the day when he’d just gotten up, hadn’t brushed his teeth or looked the minimal amount of presentable. He scratched an itchy part on his hip, just below the waistband of his drawstring pants, not caring about his current state of undress. Normal human beings did not show up at your door unannounced. Heero was one of those people and those people deserved to suffer the consequences of their actions. This was going to be a day that started out saying: ‘Good morning, Trowa. Want to get a view of revolting ribs and scratched up chest this morning?’

“It’s hot… outside,” Trowa said, seemingly lost for words. That was more like him, not the talkative guy he’d been dealing with the past few instances.

“It probably is. It’s hot in here too. Come in. I’ll turn on the air conditioning.”

He padded his way to the thermostat and set the temperature at seventy five degrees. A few moments later, glorious, cold air came out of the vents.

“Make yourself at home. If you’re not in a hurry, I’d like to take a shower first.”

There was no answer from Trowa’s end and Quatre was not patient enough to wait for it. He took the quickest shower he could, not forgetting to shave and brush his teeth or to put on some deodorant. Such in a hurry he was to attend to his guest that he decided to continue rubbing at his wet hair whilst getting something from the kitchen to serve Trowa.

“Water okay or… vegetable juice?”

Heero had left that nasty concoction behind and he hoped Trowa would be the one to take it off his hands.

“Water,” Trowa murmured almost inaudibly.

Quatre retrieved one from the fridge and handed it to him nicely. If this were Heero, he’d more likely toss it to him from across the room with not-so-good intentions of hitting him squarely on the face.

“Pants undone,” Trowa said next, pointing at his midsection. He sounded like he no longer had the want or ability to complete whole sentences.

“I was just getting to that.”

He placed the towel over his shoulder, buttoned the pants and zipped it up. After seeing his sickly drug body, Trowa might as well not be a stranger anymore. He left afterwards, going back to the bathroom to get rid of the towel and comb his hair. There was something about the heat of the day that forced him to come out of his sweatshirt shell. He slipped dark glasses on anyway to hide his eyes. When he exited the bathroom, he realized his deplorable behavior, finding that he was again, no longer able to address Trowa properly. That bit of regret really had the knack for draining his social abilities.

He stood in front of Trowa for the longest moment, not wanting to look at him. This was not Heero, he realized, and he should have really treated his guest better.

“Cat got your tongue?” Trowa said. It was his turn to do the talking. “Sorry. It’s just that… you were starting to open up earlier. A couple of seconds later and you’ve stopped talking to me again.”

He did not answer. What was there to say? He was embarrassed by his earlier behavior and Trowa had seen his not so respectable self. Thank goodness he didn’t have contraband items out in the open or that would have been a double whammy.

“I brought your clothes back from the cleaners.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’m returning the cash you left in my bathroom. The clothes were a gift… and do you always overpay?”

Quatre shrugged but made no move to get the money. In fact, he retrieved his wallet to add another forty to cover the cleaning fee. Trowa sighed.

“I’ll just leave it here then,” he said, putting what was supposed to be payment on the table. “I also gave Duo the check. He wanted me to give you this letter.”

He didn’t think people still did that. It was a little too old school, even for Duo. Quatre accepted the envelope and perused of the contents within, picking up a Polaroid photo that had fallen out with the letter. It was a picture of the mangled check he had written, framed and plastered on a wall.

‘Thanks for the check, buddy,’ the letter read. ‘I was thinking of sending this back to you, but realized what an honor it was to receive one one-zillionth of the Winner wealth. I have tacked it on the wall to remind me and yes, it will remain on the frame. Good luck balancing your account. That check is never going to clear... or is it?’

Putting both the picture and the letter back in the envelope, Quatre allowed the hand delivered item to join Trowa’s abandoned money on the table.

“I also have news about your audition.”

“I could have waited for a callback,” Quatre suggested.

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

He sat on the chair across from Trowa, noticing how quiet it was. Noam was probably still asleep. He hadn’t even noticed him on the bed that morning. There was probably a colder retreat he didn’t know about somewhere.

“You did really well for a cold reading,” Trowa said, his visible eye twinkling with excitement. At least one of them was excited. “We want you in for a second audition.”

He wished Heero had been there to throw up for him before the audition. He didn’t think he would be able to go through that again. The waiting room had been unbearable with the number of fellow audition takers whispering about him. Everything from his current joblessness to his recent bouts with addiction came up. They even had the audacity to bring up the non-existent, fan-fueled relationship between him and the director. It wasn’t true. He wanted to deny it, but that would only further fuel speculation.

“I can’t.”

“Quatre,” Trowa addressed him with an uncompromising yet desperate tone of voice. “I need you on this film.”

That was a long, long way from simply wanting him to audition.

“I’m not going to cheat people out of a job.”

He stood, going back to the kitchen to find something to feed Trowa. Finding none save for Heero’s collection of diet fads he called food, he phoned the restaurant downstairs for proper breakfast.

“Look, I actually want you to audition,” Trowa said, suddenly joining him in the kitchen. “I am not giving you the role. I want you to work for it.”

“You’ve just told me where your preferences lay.”

Trowa let out an exasperated breath, following him to the dining room.

“Conflict of interest,” Quatre added, retrieving utensils from the cupboard. He wanted out of it and he wanted Trowa out of his place - right after he fed him breakfast. He felt like he was cheating the gossipers he’d auditioned with. He put himself in Heero’s shoes and realized that some people worked so hard with no results to show for. Taking their chances away just wasn’t his style.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Trowa said while continuing to follow him around.

“Yes and thank you. At least now I know.”

“You’re impossible!”

Quatre stared at his hands holding on to forks and knives. He didn’t want to upset Trowa. That was far from the intention, but he didn’t understand where he was coming from. An audition now seemed pointless. He was definitely going to back out. Too bad he actually found the script interesting.

“You fit the role.” Trowa continued to persuade him. He tugged at his arm strong enough to force him to face him yet Quatre’s resolve did not waver.

“My character from twenty years ago fits the role.” This caused Trowa to pause and let go of his elbow. “I don’t know who you are and you don’t know who I am.”

It was Trowa’s turn to look down on the ground.

“I’m trying to.”

“Stop it.”

Cruelty was becoming his forte and not for the first time, he realized why at his age, he was still single. He thought of getting out of there, but this was his own home. He’d have to drive Trowa out intentionally if he wanted him gone.

The minutes ticked by uncomfortably until his front door opened and there appeared Heero with Noam. So _that_ was where his dog was. He was beginning to suspect worse. Noam made a beeline for him and he had to kneel to accept the animal’s affection. He retrieved his bowl from a cupboard and some food from the pantry to feed him all while singing praises of what a good dog he was.

“Honey, I’m home,” Heero said in a bland, even voice.

Quatre looked up to see what had possessed him to say that. He was looking at Trowa and Trowa was looking at him. There was tension in the air and he was sure it was due to Heero acting strange.

“So you’re the dog walker?” Trowa said with clipped tones. He was the one who clammed up all of a sudden.

“No reason why I can’t walk _our_ dog,” Heero responded. Quatre frowned, wondering what had possessed him to say that. Whatever it was that was, it was effective enough to drive Trowa away.

“Goodbye then, Quatre, Heero.” He cleared his throat and took the shortest route to the exit without picking his payment off the coffee table where he had left it. Just like that, Quatre had gotten rid of him in exchange for gaining a replacement - a worse replacement.

“ _Our_ dog?”

Heero opened the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. It was easy to see that he was sweating profusely, probably a result of running in the morning heat. Noam’s condition didn’t look any better.

“I was just testing a theory.”

“And what theory would that be?”

“If he’s into you and he is. He was oozing competitive testosterone.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he grabbed the bowl of suspicious vegetables from Heero’s hand and placed it back in the fridge. Breakfast was coming soon and since Trowa was gone, he might as well have fed it to his replacement.

“Write a story about it, why don’t you? Honestly, you’re worse than the fans.”

“Just saying,” Heero said, grabbing the bottle of vegetable juice from the fridge instead. There was a song of hallelujah in Quatre’s head for the disappearance of the juice down Heero’s throat.

“Please explain your breaking and entering this morning.”

“I made a copy of your key and threw out your stash.”

The whistle not unlike a boiling water kettle going off in Quatre’s head was equivalent to anger. The anger did not dissipate even after the doorbell rang and Heero retrieved their breakfast from the door, grabbing some cash from the coffee table for tip. The food in front of him moments later did not look quite as appealing as what Heero had gotten rid of. He slowly formed his hand into a fist and punched the kitchen counter. The granite did not crack, as expected, but his hand did not register the pain.

“Enjoy my stash, did you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Get out of my house!”

He punched the counter again and again in desperation, Noam suddenly appearing next to him to appease him, but he was blinded by anger. He didn’t know when Heero had left, but he was sure he was no longer there when he picked plates off the cupboard and smashed them against a wall. In the back of his mind, he remembered Trowa’s earlier talk of nonsense and wished desperately he could have thrown that water bottle in his face instead.

 


	5. Act Five

He nailed it and he was pissed. He’d been pissed since he found out his usual dealers wouldn’t sell him anything courtesy of a Heero Yuy warning. Right after that harsh revelation, he went right in for the second audition and nailed the part. He didn’t even want to do it, but it was probably the best performance of his life. The casting crew was in awe. He was in awe. Even without Trowa’s endorsement, he could have explained why he at least deserved to try for it. They thought it was a fluke. They did the scene again and again, switched to another scene he had thankfully memorized and then another scene and another until he himself had had enough of it and stormed out of there. Nobody ran after him. He would have punched them if they did.

It didn’t take another two weeks. The same evening of the second audition, he got the call. It was phenomenal, he was told, and amazing how he stayed in character throughout, even remaining in the persona after he stormed out. He was still fuming, actually, and that was no Method acting. That was raw anger which still radiated off him. It was ever-present as he was being told that they would have wanted to give him the part but they couldn’t. It was something about insurance, that no company would insure a high-risk performer like him. No company would pay if he abandoned the project or got too high to film or killed himself accidentally or otherwise. That was the way the business destroyed you - praised you endlessly before shooting you down mercilessly.

“We can cover the insurance bond if necessary.”

“I don’t want to do it that way.”

“We own a subsidiary insurance company.”

“I’m done cheating.”

“Quatre, I really don’t know where you get your over-developed, misplaced sense of righteousness – your father or me.”

Quatre chewed on his inner cheek, trying to diffuse the still present anger. He wasn’t willing to put a dent on the family company just because nobody else would insure him. He’d already put a big enough dent when he resigned. He would never know how his father felt about it since he’d never asked. His mother just acted like it never happened.

“I’ll get another job, mom. I promise.”

He didn’t actually need to get a job. He was well off enough, as Duo constantly claimed, bumming lazily in his house, letting the bank interest accumulate on a large sum of money. But, when you’re thirty-five with no career, no wife and no kids, you were done having potential. There was no longer any excuse and with middle-age looming not so far behind, people judged that as a summary of your future.

“I’m coming over, baby. I’m landing in Van Nuys in a couple of minutes. I found the first pilot I could find to operate one of your father’s jets.”

“Mom!”

She sometimes came without warning and he was not ready to deal with her yet, not even after Heero cleaned out his condo of illicit materials. His withdrawal symptoms were dwindling, but that didn’t mean that they were no longer there.

“Your sister said you left rehab earlier than promised.”

At least his sister had given him a few weeks to prepare for her arrival. What she didn’t do was call him for prior warning. It was most likely payback for not calling her before he left the facility.

“There was a reunion for the show. I had to go!”

“Pick me up at the airport in an hour, honey. I am so excited to see you!”

His mother was there as promised at the allotted time with several suitcases in tow for who knew how long a stay. She never packed light, having the luxury of a private jet all to herself. She’d always been the prettiest blonde he’d ever met with her forever young face despite her age. Nevertheless, age does not wait and Quatre knew she was getting older by the day. He was her menopause baby, a last minute decision, he was told, by parents who wanted a son after four girls. He’d almost come at a cost, but his mother had soldiered through it. It was no secret that she favored him the most and to all of them, he would always be the baby.

“Come give mama a kiss,” she greeted with open arms, her silk scarf blowing in the wind and her large sunglasses perched atop her head. She looked like she came right out of a travel magazine.

Quatre, naturally, obliged her, giving her a peck on the cheek and a warm embrace before letting go and deciding against it. He held her close to him, this time giving her a kiss atop her head. She was such a delicate thing.

“Trying to look like your father again?” she teased, ruffling his now darker hair.

“It’s the best I could manage short of donning a fierce moustache.”

Her laugh was light and cheery, giving him a feeling of security. It was expected that she’d notice given the dramatic change. It wasn’t the first time, however, since he’d been requesting for brown hair when he was five. He’d tried to color it then, even using a marker to draw a moustache on his upper lip. He failed then with the moustache and failed again in his twenties. That was when he decided, facial hair just wasn’t going to be his thing.

“Has he started to enjoy retirement yet? It’s been decades.”

“Your father finds ways to occupy himself without you around.”

Since he was born in the latter years of his parent’s lives, he was the only child raised by his own parents even among his nieces and nephews. His sisters had all been sent to boarding school. His nieces and nephews were still suffering the same fate. If he thought about it, he’d been lucky. His father retired not too long into his teen years so he was always there. His mom too. His situation was nothing like how it appeared on the show. The arguments with his parents were never major and he got along with them just fine. In essence, he should have been the picture of perfect mental and emotional development. Doing an introspective on himself, he wondered why that wasn’t the case.

“Are you staying at the Montage? I have an extra room…”

“Oh baby, you don’t want your mother hovering around you at your age.”

She raised her hand up to call for assistance with her suitcases, but he placed her hand down gently, doing it himself. Sometimes, she did those things out of habit and Quatre hoped that he would never get used to getting people to do things for him if he could do it himself.

“Let’s go grocery shopping,” she suggested with a clap once they entered his car. It was very domestic, the kind of thing she hired maids to do, but he was sure that she was simply looking after his health. After all, he looked scrawnier since the last time she saw him. She never commented, but he could tell.

“Ok, mom. Any grocery store fine with you?”

“Of course.”

She was definitely not a grocery going person. His mother, bless her, looked downright out of place walking the aisles with one of her arms secured around his. She commented on the packaged food often, wondering about which ones they should get and which ones he should be eating. There were certain items she preferred over others but generally, she based everything off the packaging. What was a grocery trip turned into a delightful treasure hunt for her. If he were still a teenager, it would most likely be an embarrassing affair.

“Yogurt?” she suggested, picking a brand with grinning cows plastered on the cup. “…or maybe a white truffle cake? Let’s buy you a cake.”

If it wasn’t already obvious that she was trying to fatten him up, it became more apparent as she not so subtly handed him two of each of the food samples as they walked the aisles. He diligently shoved everything into his mouth, picking up little cups of the juice samples they provided in the process.

“Do people still recognize you?” his mother asked, burying herself closer next to him as they passed by the colder freezer sections. “From the show?”

“Occasionally,” he responded. “But I just had that one show and it’s been years. It’s not all that popular anymore. And this is LA - it’s a regular thing here, unless you’re one of the A-listers - then they notice.”

“I’m only asking, honey, because some people are taking pictures of you with their phones.”

Being caught grocery shopping with your mom at the grocery? Why the heck not! Quatre was nothing if proud of his mother, kissing her on top of her head for a photo op. She seemed to find it amusing, laughing with a hand to her mouth and a silly comment. “That’s my baby boy.”

After dropping his mother off at her hotel for a quick freshening up and a promise of dinner, Quatre returned to his condo with a goal of putting all his things in order, just in case she decided to drop by. What he did not expect was to find Wufei waiting at his door, standing patiently before it and applying his knuckles to the wooden entrance. It was not for the first time that Quatre wondered why nobody ever called before coming over. The consequences were quite obvious and it was only a lucky coincidence he’d even come home. He wondered with a bit of worry, anyway, how long his uninvited guest had been waiting.

“Quatre,” Wufei greeted, raising one hand up in a semi-salute.

He nodded in response and put his key into the lock. Wufei followed him through the door without prompting, grabbing a few of the grocery bags off his hands and followed him to the kitchen to place them down on the counter.

“I would have called first,” was Wufei’s excuse, the same excuse everyone else used on him when they came over unexpected. “But you have no cell.”

Quatre pointed to the phone next to his fridge. As far as he was concerned, it was still a legitimate means of communication. But, they never asked for _that_ number.

“You can use this.” Wufei tossed a box at him which he caught with mild surprise. The substantial weight of the white box was somewhat annoying as he held it in his right hand. There was a reason why he didn’t have a cell phone and he wanted to keep it that way.

“We got you the usual thing. You can change it if you want. Let’s just call it a production expense.”

He almost got to the question of what production he meant when Wufei answered his unvoiced question.

“You got the part.”

“I thought there were insurance issues.”

“I own the production company,” Wufei explained, helping him unload the groceries from the bag. “I don’t think you’re the type to cause any problems, but I will gladly foot the bill if you do.”

Quatre frowned as he stacked yogurt cups one on top of the other in his fridge.

“Trowa sent me the audition tapes. You were amazing. There is no way we’d pass up on that.”

He hadn’t known Wufei was producing or that he was on friendly terms with Trowa. He thought that they’d all gone their separate ways after the show. It made him wonder if it had just been him who’d lost touch, who’d kept them away from his life.

“Good start on the publicity though.”

“Publicity?” He looked at Wufei in question as he seemed to be doing a lot recently.

“You and your mom at the grocery.”

He felt a crease forming on his forehead. That had just been a few hours ago. It was disturbing how Wufei knew. He thought he felt goose bumps at the back of his neck and arms. His guest somehow recognized his anxiety regarding the whole situation and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He did a few swipes at the device before handing it to him.

“Instagram,” he explained, showing him a picture of him kissing his mother. He almost dropped the phone in horror. These days, you didn’t even need the paparazzi. Everyone was paparazzi. “You could have guessed. You’re trending on twitter too since word got out about the audition.”

“That was quick. I had no idea.”

“That’s why you need a cell phone. At least you’ll know how they use it on you. Don’t you know these apps? Have you ever owned a smart phone?”

Picking up the white box, he tore open the packaging, pushing all the buttons until he managed to turn the device on. He _did_ know how to use a cell. He just didn’t own one. At least they picked a black one for him - very discreet. All he needed now was to get service. Maybe he’d give it a try again.

“By the way, where’s the husband?”

Quatre raised his eyebrow in question, asking without speaking what exactly he’d meant by that.

“I meant Heero Yuy.”

“We’re on trial separation.” Quatre responded at once.

“I didn’t know you could be funny.”

As if a call for the devil himself, a knock suddenly resounded from his front door. Just when Quatre was resolved to let whoever was knocking keep on knocking, he opened the door to find the one person he was somewhat expecting and dreading to appear. Heero looked nowhere near apologetic as he shoved passed him to enter the condo, not even an ‘excuse me’ or a ‘may I come in’ thrown his way. Noam, used to his presence by now, greeted him with a quick yap before following him into the kitchen.

“I want a divorce,” Quatre said, closing the door after him.

Though unaware of the previous conversation with Wufei, Heero responded.

“…As long as I get to keep the dog and no spousal support. We both have legitimate acting jobs now.”

If even Heero had heard about how his audition went, he was no longer surprised. What surprised him was Heero’s news about his own situation. This was the first acting job he’d landed in months. He was grudgingly happy for him. Serving drinks in a bar was no longer cutting it for him. Besides, Quatre was happy he wouldn’t get visited by his ‘parole officer’ as often.

“Care to explain,” he heard Wufei’s voice from the kitchen. Guest number one had made quick and efficient work of storing his groceries in the fridge. The way he did it, it seemed more organized. Despite that, Heero’s discourteous hands dug in there to grab an apple. He wiped it on his shirt before taking a large bite out of the fruit.

“It’s a television show - a medical drama. We’ll start shooting the pilot episode in two months.”

“One month before we start filming the movie then.”

Quatre did not know that. There were several things he didn’t know as his two guests discussed the details of both jobs. Those were three months for him to get fit, a mere three months to get over his drug addiction, if he ever did. He grabbed a yogurt off the fridge to feed his growling stomach, content on just listening to the two talk.

“I heard you’ll be heavily involved in production.”

Wufei’s nod was unseen as he heaved a rather large bag of dog food underneath the sink. Quatre felt guilty he was doing all the work and abandoned his snack to help him. But Wufei waved him off, easily completing the task as Heero continued to watch someone else doing the task he usually did. He was comfortable enough on his end of the kitchen, continuing to ask the questions.

“You’ll be in LA most of the time then. Where are the wife and kids staying these days?”

“Singapore,” Wufei responded, straightening up. “It’s expensive, but they’ve got quality education for the kids. Plus, the discipline. Teenagers these days are a handful.”

“I heard you can get spanked there for being a drug addict.”

“Caning, yeah.”

“Heard that, Quatre? We can have you shipped off and include Trowa in the package to do the spanking.”

“I wouldn’t recommend such a brutal thing,” Wufei said with distaste and a bit of sympathy. “There are better ways to get clean. …I’ll be his personal trainer for the duration of the filming.”

Quatre looked at Wufei before inevitably thinking about spanking. This caused him to pull his hood up and hide. He blamed Heero for the unexpected mental image and cringed. Wufei looked stricter than anyone he’d ever known and he’d never known true discipline. Since he was the youngest child, his parents had always been too easy on him.

“I’m going to need one too,” Heero said to which Quatre wondered before realizing what he’d meant. “I’ll need a personal trainer to get fit. Not that they’ll require a muscled doctor for TV.”

“I can train you,” Wufei suggested to Heero who nodded with fervor despite the apple still hanging off his mouth.

“I can’t pay you.”

“You don’t have to, but you’ll have to do it with the husband for a two for one special.”

Heero looked at him, looked back at Wufei and then made a face. Heero made faces - a lot of faces many people didn’t get to see, but this one, this one Quatre decided was insulting.

“I’ll get a different trainer,” Quatre said. He was not training with Heero if he could help it.

“You really want to get screamed at about exercising and eating right by a buff guy with a medicine ball?”

Quatre almost went with the buff guy - almost, before shrugging at his fate. Wufei would probably be the lesser evil. He already knew him so that was one less person to get to know. He really didn’t know when he started becoming shy around people. It wasn’t always that way.

“Good luck training two junkies.”

“Speak for yourself, Blondie. I’ve been clean for three years,” Heero said, mock-throwing the core of his apple at him. Quatre dodged on reflex even though no objects flew at him. He gave Heero his nastiest look, which really wasn’t potent at all and really never worked.

“Children! Should I sign you two up for therapy too?”

Quatre conceded first, putting a spoonful of yogurt into his mouth. He consumed the cup slowly, reminding himself to save his appetite for dinner, so he could show his mom that he was, indeed, eating normally. Noam suddenly placed his two front paws on his lap, begging for a taste of the yogurt. Quatre picked up another spoon to feed him.

“First things first, Quatre. You’re going to have to look the part fast. We always shoot the love scenes first, typically when the actors are at their fittest. For you, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Trowa’s a butt man,” Heero said suddenly. “Watch all his movies. You should work on the glutes.”

Nobody would want to get a view of his rear end, probably not even his doctor. He was sure it was of the pasty white variety though he didn’t care to look. Maybe that was his problem. He had to care more about how he looked. Heero, at least, always made that effort.

“And the hair,” Wufei added. “It will be back to blond for you.”

That was when they started dissecting his look and talking about how he would look like naked. Somehow, Trowa’s hypothetical opinions became all the more important. They surmised that since he was the director, he’d have his hands full configuring a bony ass to look sexy. He took all of that in with good enough humor, for the first time feeling content. It only kicked in at that moment that he had an acting job after so long. Maybe this really _was_ what he wanted to do after quitting the Winner conglomerate. His parents would support him even with the controversial role and despite the addiction, he was sure, but the sisters, their husbands and a whole slew of stockholders were a different matter altogether. The meeting with the board would have to wait. He trusted his father to, at least, fan the flames for the time being.

 


	6. Act Six

One week. Wufei locked him in his own house for one week. That was the maximum amount of time, Wufei said, that he could devote to him outside of work and family obligations. Ideally, they’d put him back in a facility, but Quatre wasn’t going back to La Jolla where his sister was a short drive away or any of the various rehab facilities around Los Angeles where gossipers usually thrived. He’d gone through the detox process more than once before and it was hell. He doubted this round was going to go any better.

After sweeping his place clean of illicit substances and paraphernalia - twice - and informing his mother that she wouldn’t be seeing him for a week, they literally locked him in. Wufei invited himself to move in the extra room for the duration of his suffering. It had been hell, but at least Wufei was a little more tolerable than Heero. If the problem was getting to know each other better then that wasn’t a problem at all. Wufei was privy to everything by the time he was lifting his head off the toilet bowl with a wretched stomach ache.

By the time the week was up, he felt mildly better although the insomnia was still an inconvenience. Being able to sleep off the misery would have been ideal. Not having to feel like all the muscles in your body were rebelling against your bones was even better. There was very little muscle relaxants could do to help. He wanted it done and over with. His mood said the same.

“Good morning.”

Wufei greeted him every morning with the delicious aroma of fresh brewed coffee, a healthy breakfast and his dog being fed. His temporary caretaker was admittedly efficient and the methodical way he went about dealing with an addict with brutal withdrawal symptoms was exemplary. Quatre didn’t think his tantrums and unmerited accusations could have been any more annoying, but Wufei was patient enough to deal with them. Occasionally, when Wufei had to leave, Heero showed-up just to cause undue amounts of irritation.

“Morning.”

Wufei threw a towel at him, always ready. He’d been sweating through the night with his shirt having been abandoned somewhere in his now messy room. It didn’t matter. Wufei had already seen his scratched up chest more than a few times. Swiping the towel on his torso and back before placing it across his shoulders, he received his umpteenth piece of advice.

“You should probably trim your nails so you don’t cause more damage,” Wufei said between sips of coffee. “That has to clear up before the shoot.”

He nodded with no protest. Had this been Heero, it would have been a command rather than a suggestion.

“You ready for the outside world?”

Quatre felt his ears perk up. Being cooped up in the same place for a week got redundant after the first three days. Of course he was ready. An inexplicable sense of rejuvenation filled him.

“We’ll start with Pilates.”

He nodded again. Heck, he would even do a triathlon just to get out of the house. Speaking of which, Wufei was one super fit guy. In the week that Quatre had been with him, he’d watched the martial arts expert work-out and was amazed by his strength. The nimble body was amazing in the way it stretched and flexed. Quatre imagined him jumping off the walls whilst holding fifty pound weights on each hand. He was somewhat envious.

“And prepare to be joined by Heero.”

Quatre and his pet were in tandem as he let out a sigh the same time the animal let out a howl. They were thinking exactly the same thing. At least Noam would be staying over at his neighbor’s place for the day.

The gym in Encino was private, private enough that there were only a few people to share the space with. A number of people greeted Wufei as he entered, signaling Quatre to his popularity if not with the fans then with fellow fitness enthusiasts. He was friendly, he noticed, and very engaging in the way he interacted with them, so unlike his show’s persona of a man with a brusque and chauvinistic approach toward people.

Quatre followed close behind him with his usual hood secured around his head and his glasses hiding his eyes. He’d not been out in the open for a week. If he was going to be ready to face the outside world, it wouldn’t be too quickly and not without recoil. The people in the gym were so fit and flexible, working on their yoga mats, large, bouncy balls and kettle bells. This was clearly not the place for him.

“Hey, Chang! New trainee?”

“Yes and be nice.”

“So how do we want him, nineties muscular or new-age toned?”

“New-age,” Wufei responded, encouraging him to pull off his hood. Quatre followed instructions, taking his sunglasses off as well. He still hid, however, by bowing his head and looking at the ground filled with exercise mats and all manner of fitness equipment.

“Oh my god! Is that Quatre Winner you brought with you?”

“Be nice,” Wufei warned again as Quatre stuck his hands in his pockets. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him, which really made him want to leave - stat.

“He’s even cuter in person!”

“Jesus, don’t tell me you’re the same age as this old coot here.”

“Hey!”

“Can I take him home and keep him?”

“Woman!”

Now that sounded more like the typical nineties-era Wufei. Quatre couldn’t help but snicker, which, unfortunately, brought even more attention to him. One lady even did so much as lock him in a bear hug and squeeze him so tight he thought her biceps were going to crush his entire torso. They ruffled his hair too and fawned over him like one would an infant. He was hyperventilating by the time Wufei pulled them off him. He wondered if Duo had to deal with the same, but those bodyguards of his probably wouldn’t let anyone near him.

“Let’s not get overexcited,” Wufei continued, even going so far as shielding him against the small crowd with his body.

“Oh, don’t be a prude. I haven’t seen him since before the dawn of the new millennium and that was just on TV. He’s a whole different kind of adorable in person.”

“Nice… nice to meet you,” Quatre offered meekly which caused a rather beefy man to curse out loud. He didn’t think he was _that_ cute.

“Oh, it was just the drug addict. I thought we were being joined by someone more interesting.”

All manner of sweaty towels, wristbands, sweatbands and possibly used gym clothes were thrown Heero’s way. Much to Quatre’s surprise, his appearance sobered up the crowd who made their final introductions before leaving them. Not before long, they were back to working on their bodies.

“You could have been the most popular one,” Wufei addressed Heero, kicking a damp towel out of the way. “…if you had a better personality.”

“Of the Duo Maxwell variety?” Heero tried to confirm, pulling Quatre by the arm and shoving him into one of the more private rooms.

“Yes.”

Quatre did not appreciate how he had been manhandled by a man dressed like a gigolo. He looked at Heero’s outfit in distaste. Though he didn’t dress in the Trowa-length short shorts, his wife beater was all sweaty, failing to cover-up erect nipples and bulging muscles. His goal was definitely not to end up that way. He hoped it was not what ‘new-age toned’ looked like.

“You’ve been diligent,” was as far a complement as Wufei offered Heero, dropping his gym bag to one corner of the room. “If you have time, we have to work on this one.” A thumb was directed Quatre’s way.

Quatre made himself busy by looking around the room fitted with straps, metal strings from the ceilings and padded platforms, trying to figure out what kind of workout he really needed that would require the medieval torture chamber. He had stretched some with Wufei before leaving his place and did a light jog before ironically getting into the car to drive to the gym.

“Fine. Let’s get Mr. Cute-as-a-button a man’s body so Trowa won’t feel too pedophilic about showing it to the world.”

Quatre picked a dollar off his pocket and stuffed it into Heero’s sweatpants. Wufei could only roll his eyes as they started a fight which ended with Quatre disgustedly wiping nasty armpit sweat from his neck, the result of Heero’s mighty headlock. That was a workout in and of itself. When they were finally done and Heero was satisfied he’d done enough damage, Quatre changed into an old shirt and a pair of sweats. Wufei was leading the stretch and he was concentrating on that, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t ready to flee if Heero ever decided he wanted to put those armpits anywhere near him again.

There was a lot of strange breathing going on during the workout and not for the first time, he noticed Wufei’s Buddha-like patience and Heero’s complete lack of it. Holding a position for longer than a few seconds was a challenging ordeal which he took with determination. They had been at it for hours before Wufei finally called for a break. Quatre felt a nice sort of tingle in his muscles, proud of himself for doing something other than take drugs then fight addiction in a cyclical manner. He felt more energetic than he did in a long time. He didn’t think he minded doing this everyday.

Lunch was taken at a nearby restaurant filled with several kitschy framed photos of the Italian flare. Pasta and pizza were served in abundance, which Quatre quickly verified its allowance with his trainer. Heero opted for a salad sans dressing but still with a good helping of meat. Quatre had built up a healthy appetite which he did not fight, savoring the meal after a trying day. He was too busy stuffing himself when he felt a hand land on his newly washed head. The warmth on his wet hair made him jerk away in surprise.

“Don’t mind him. He has a bad habit of wanting to touch blonds.”

When he looked up, he was met with the face of the lead of his favorite teenage rock band. He was too star-struck to notice the other two he came with, including the strangely dressed man who had touched his head and Trowa who was giving the death glare to the owner of the offending hand.

“Looks like Trowa wants to touch this blond too,” his once idol said, letting out a hearty laugh, waving his hand to Wufei in greeting. “Chang, Trowa tells me you’re producing a movie for him. Any reason why you didn’t give me a heads-up? I could have auditioned,” he said with a wink.

“You’re not pretty enough,” Wufei dismissed. There were greetings all around that included Heero who apparently knew these people. After the show, Quatre had moved back to New York to pursue a normal life. With Hollywood far from his mind, he never thought of looking back until now. He’d missed a lot in the time he was away and couldn’t help but feel left out when the other three joined the table.

The touchy-feely of the group, who Quatre recognized as Matt, the drummer of the band, attempted to sit next to him before Trowa intercepted him to the seat. The lead singer, Eddie, continued on with no regard for them.

“Heero, my man, we’re planning a tour the end of this year. Want to be a part of it? They loved you last time we went on tour with you.”

Quatre blinked, surprised of the new discovery. He’d never heard of it from Heero before. He supposed it was possible that the son of an acting family taught him how to sing too. He imagined Heero tap dancing and had to hold his laughter in as they continued talking.

“I’m working on a new show,” Heero reasoned.

”No way.”

“Medical drama.”

There was some amused laughter at the thought of Heero playing a doctor, some reprimands from Wufei to keep it down and Quatre playing with a ravioli on his plate. Aside from the tap on his head earlier, they’d yet to acknowledge his presence. It probably would have been easy to slip off unnoticed. He felt the urge to do that with every second that ticked by.

“I’ll join the band when they put you out to pasture in Vegas.”

“Burn, Yuy! I knew you just wanted us for retirement money.”

Quatre almost jumped out of the table when Trowa’s hand suddenly brushed against the side of his arm to reach for a glass of Coke that was being passed down the table by their server. He almost fell, but Trowa managed to grab a hold of a considerable amount of material of his sweatshirt to keep him upright. That was the end of his invisibility.

“Who’s your friend? Wait! Don’t tell me. Is he the missing number to your former boy band?”

Quatre ducked his head. Duo would have thought that was hilarious. The show came out just as boy bands were becoming a fad, but he did not want to be associated with that. Wufei quickly confirmed who he was.

“You didn’t recognize Quatre Winner?”

“No shit? Number four then. I thought you quit acting?”

“If you were a chick, man, I’d totally have banged you back in the day. I probably still would. You age damn well.”

Heero looked at him with a smirk. If they were not in the presence of other people, he would have been laughing his ass off at him. Locked out of the rest of the world for a few days then thrown to that same world all of a sudden, Quatre was not prepared to deal with all these people in the span of a few hours.

“Watch your mouth, Ed.”

Eddie placed his arm around Trowa’s shoulder in response to the reprimand and shook it. He then delivered a peck on his cheek.

“Relax, man. I promised you’d be the first gay dude I’d go for if the thought ever crossed my mind.”

“Shut up and get your hands off me. And stop hitting on the muse.”

“The muse?”

Matt, mostly silent until now, placed his chin on his upturned palm and stared at him. Not for the first time, Quatre felt more than a bit uncomfortable. They were all staring at him now as he put his fork down and took a sip of his drink.

“I totally see it,” Matt said, grabbing a clean fork and rudely picking a creamy gnocchi off one of the larger plates. “He get the lead role?”

“Yes.”

“You should have had Heero try out for the part too.”

“Not pretty enough.”

“I see where this is going.”

Their banter continued on and Quatre did not think to take part in it. He finished eating a few minutes back and was just playing with his food now. Trowa probably noticed that when he, like another in their group, picked up a fork and stopped him from swirling the ravioli on his plate. He picked it up instead and stuffed it in his mouth. Table manners were apparently not the norm these days as he watched Trowa eat off his plate. He would have wanted to point out the abundance of dishes still at their table to chose from, but the other looked like he was enjoying himself too much. His proximity leaning over was quite uncomfortable too. It was uncomfortable enough that he did not notice quickly enough when a fellow diner in the restaurant fell from her chair taking labored gasps of breath.

Heero was the first to respond. He immediately left his seat to check on the patron, asking the family she was with some questions about her condition before the fall. Strangely enough, he looked very professional, almost too real as he decided to take matters into his own hands. Wufei had already called an ambulance before instructing people to stay out of the way to give the fallen woman some space to breathe.

Quatre felt wary when Heero began explaining the situation to the worried family, looking and sounding very much like the doctor he wasn’t. Being too worried about the situation, they didn’t even think to ask him. When he picked a knife off the table and placed it against the side of the terrified lady’s rib, Quatre decided to take action. He immediately flew off his seat and threw himself at Heero before the other could do further damage.

“I need to make a passageway for breathing,” he reasoned as he struggled in Quatre’s hold.

“Where did you learn that language?” Quatre questioned as he continued his hold on Heero. That knife was going nowhere near the woman as long as he was there. His appearance, it seemed, confounded the family even further as what Quatre assumed was the mother started crying.

“Shut up. I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re not a doctor,” Quatre whispered to Heero to save him the trouble of having to explain what he was trying to do to the fallen woman. She may have had trouble breathing, but she looked scared of Heero. “Let go of that and have the paramedics handle the situation.”

Their dining companions were within range now, wondering what the heck they were talking about in an obvious emergency situation.

“I know how to do this.”

“Heero, this is not a show!”

With more insistence in his voice now, Quatre attempted to plead with Heero to stop. This only earned him a hard push to his rib courtesy of Heero’s elbow. That muscled body that was working out only a few hours ago was strong enough to throw him off balance. Quatre stumbled behind Heero, landing on his behind. Trowa helped him up immediately but didn’t let him go when he attempted to approach Heero again.

“He has a knife on him,” Trowa reasoned via a whisper in his ear when he tried to go back. His arms went around his waist and held firmly there. Clearly, he was the least fit of the group with the easy way he’d been manhandled all day.

When Quatre noticed Heero apply the knife to the side of the woman’s rib again with the intention of stabbing it in with the pressure on his palm, he realized that everyone thought this was how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to inform everyone that what they watched on TV or the big screen was not reality. This did not just happened in real life and when it did, it happened with a professional, not with someone who played a professional. When nobody else attempted to stop Heero, he figured enough was enough and screamed the only thing he could think of to snap Heero out of it.

“You were never a Gundam pilot!”

Everyone looked at him like he was crazy, but it was okay since even Heero did the same. He dropped the knife beside him, shame filling his eyes almost instantly. The paramedics came immediately after, handling the situation that would have been worse had Heero continued on with what he was attempting to do. Trowa’s hold may have been firm, but Quatre effectively pushed him off to follow Heero out the restaurant. Quatre found him easily with his face in his hands, shaking slightly as he was hunched over himself.

“I’m sorry.”

He really didn’t want to scream that in front of everyone, but it was the only thing he could think of at that instant.

“I gave you no choice.”

“I should have thought of something else to say.”

“I was clearly delusional.”

“Everyone else who didn’t stop you was guilty of that too - being delusional.”

“Well, that was fucked-up.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Yeah.”

It happened to the best of them too - being unable to let go of a character. For Heero, it had been the enigma that was Gundam pilot zero-one from twenty years ago. Every role since then had been the same, turning him into the characters he played with the residual serial co-star dater effect. His current girlfriend had probably been a co-star too. Reality had become confusing for him. It was no wonder he turned to drugs.

“Let’s get you home.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not going back to cocaine, are you?”

“Fuck you, heroin addict.”

At least they were back to normal.

 


	7. Act Seven

He was forced to shave - down there. Quatre looked at his spray-tanned, over-exposed self in the mirror and cringed. His co-star had specifically requested for it, claiming that she didn’t want to feel any stray or otherwise disgusting fuzz during the scene. He would have protested that it was a completely natural thing, but that would have been a losing argument. Compromise was the key, he reminded himself, and this particularly adventurous undertaking, at least for him, provided him with an excuse to examine himself closely. These days, he was no longer as gaunt, having kicked his on again off again habit, hopefully for good. Wufei’s physical training and dietary restrictions also had much to do with it and for once, he was oddly satisfied with what he was seeing in the mirror. It was not easy to achieve and he hoped that it would be good enough for the day’s shoot.

It would only be five of them shooting that day - him and a co-star, the director and two assistants. It would be a closed set, they said, and he was all for it. If he had to be naked for work and in the least sexy way possible then he would rather not have an audience larger than what they had. There was also the issue of keeping the modesty of his co-star who all but barged into his dressing room before he was ready.

“Not bad,” she said closing the door behind her with a rough push. The sound the door made on the hinges made him cringe. “You’re hotter than I thought.”

Quatre thought the complement didn’t help his embarrassment as he quickly secured his robe around him. His modesty was also at stake here.

“Look, since we’re going to be doing this, I thought we should see each other naked before anybody else telling us what to do see us naked. Fair, right?”

He nodded. He wanted to say ‘ladies first’, but she was already disrobing before he even thought to offer. Her fluffy white robe was discarded on the floor with little care. Completely naked, it was easy to see that her body was beautiful, probably having gone through some rigorous training the way he did. She was tight in all places with the kind of perky breasts he preferred. She was curvaceous, self-confident and, he noticed, very natural down there. It was hard not to feel cheated.

“Your turn.”

He pushed his robe off his shoulders, mimicking what she had done earlier. She examined him more closely than he did her, making it hard not to feel so self-conscious. She was a much bigger star, probably used to filming love scenes like they were nothing. She seemed much more at ease with the way she carried herself, even pinching one of his unprotected nipples in the process. He jumped back almost instinctively, now only feeling the cold air surrounding them.

“I was a big fan, you know,” she said, holding a hand up in an open posture despite her state of undress. “I was twelve when I watched your show. Duo Maxwell was a dream, but you were always the cutest one. I assumed only the other two were the silent type. What happened to your tongue?”

He licked his lips, unable to respond to her curious question. He didn’t know when he’d gotten so quiet, but it had the effect of having people commenting to him about it all the time.

“I’m a big fan of yours too,” he finally said, shyly looking away from her intense stare. It wasn’t a fluffed up complement. Just standing before her now made him feel inadequate. In fact, he was too star-struck to come up to her when they did the first reading for the movie. This was, in essence, the first time they’d met. “I hope I won’t hold you back.”

“Nonsense!” she said with a raise of her hand. “If this director vouches for you then you might as well be the next Oscar winner.”

For some reason, the length of time they spent talking whilst naked became more and more inconsequential. As the minutes ticked by, he became more at ease simply standing there with no clothes on. Whatever trick she used to be less self-conscious, it was working on him too.

Unfortunately, the self-consciousness came back in full force as soon as they were on the set. The recording of their stripping had gone by without a hitch only requiring two or three takes to take into account the variety of angles. What _did_ take forever were the nude scenes. By the time they did the fifth take, he was cold and nothing he did could keep the goose bumps at bay, especially since Trowa’s frigid and clammy hands were adjusting him and his partner every which way. It was the most technically awkward and least sexy experience in all the times he spent naked. By the time they perfected the position of himself on top of his co-star with him kissing between her breasts, he thought a shower would have been sexier.

“Quatre! Slower, more sensual. Stop! Do what I told you! Move down, down, slowly. I said slow!”

Trowa was bossy, he realized, as he fought the urge to roll his eyes. If they stuck with this take, they would surely have to edit out Trowa’s voice. Having never worked with him before, it was a definite eye-opener. Trowa was a perfectionist of the most difficult variety. It was too hard to be ‘sensual’ when someone kept on telling you you’re doing it all wrong. They just _had_ to shoot the love scene first and he just _had_ to learn about Trowa’s quirks as they were filming it.

“Cut. Take five.”

He quickly picked up two robes and handed one to his partner, sending her an apologetic smile for being the chief cause of their problems. It was not the lines he was struggling with. It was misunderstanding the direction Trowa wanted to take.

“Don’t sweat it.”

He nodded. Another frustrating point was the director having to take a five minute break washing his face after every take. He always came back with a fresh face, slightly damp hair and the same clammy hands he used to maneuver them none too nicely.

“You must be cold,” he murmured to his co-star, pulling a portable heater closer to her. She was rubbing her arms for some extra warmth and appreciated the action.

“You’re sweet,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. When he ducked in shame, she offered him an apologetic smile. “You don’t like a little flirting on the side, do you?” When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “Just a little advice - don’t be too shy. I’m not.”

“Alright, back to one,” Trowa said suddenly from somewhere behind them, looking infinitely serious despite his expressionless face. The droplets of water left over from his wash dripped down his hair to the back of his neck. He was clearly not happy, causing Quatre to bite his lip. He would do better, he promised himself. It was going to get better even if he had to spend the rest of the entire day naked.

What he expected to be a longer, more arduous shoot, indeed, turned out to take the entire day. His co-star was sneezing by the time they wrapped-up and Trowa had disappeared quickly, not commenting on the job they’d done nor saying his goodbyes. Quatre dressed quickly, hoping to pick-up Wufei at his hotel for dinner as planned.

“How’d it go?’ Wufei greeted upon meeting him at the overelaborate lobby of the hotel. He was dressed casually, dictating his choice of food joint for the night. It was just as well since Quatre had no desire to deal with high-end dining at the moment. He would rather just blend in with the crowd.

“Horrible.” His one word reply was met with a raise of a brow.

“I built you like a sculpture.”

Carved out from nothing, Quatre thought, putting his hands into his pockets. “I think it was more an acting issue than anything to do with the looks department.”

“Ah,” Wufei responded, stepping up to join him as they exited the hotel lobby. They walked a few steps before he dropped a bomb. “I hope you don’t mind. I invited—“

“Me.”

The hairs at the back of Quatre’s neck stood on end. He was half-expecting Heero to make an appearance, but not Duo so suddenly and from behind his back. He was not about to discuss his lack of acting chops with a multiple award winner over dinner while being surrounded by paparazzi courtesy of aforementioned award winner.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t miss me enough to invite me, Quat? Looking good by the way - better than you did at the reunion.”

He ignored it, walking up to the valet to retrieve his car. He entered the driver’s seat, wishing he’d just gone straight home when he saw Heero already seated on the passenger seat. One more and it would be a proper second reunion and a cause for commotion. He prayed Trowa would not make an appearance next.

“Shotgun!” Duo screamed right next to his ear, making him wince. Heero was definitely quieter. “Aww, I didn’t hear Heero call for shotgun!” He planted himself in the seat behind him anyway and got comfortable. “Sweet ride. How many of these do you have?”

“One.”

“One Mercedes?”

“One car.”

If it was Duo’s intention to compare the number of cars they owned then the Italian car enthusiast in Duo Maxwell would definitely win - by a long shot.

“What, you hanging on to your money for dear life?”

Heero interrupted none too nicely. “Where to for dinner?” he asked as if he’d been invited to anything. At least Duo counted as Wufei’s bothersome guest.

He would have said it was Wufei’s pick, but he didn’t trust the man enough to pick something low-key with the four of them together. Besides, he might have been the one to orchestrate the entire thing.

“There’s this place in East LA…” he suggested before being shot down expectedly.

“That’s as bad as South Central. Are you kidding me?” was Duo’s outburst.

Four well-off enough guys in the car going to the bad part of town was probably not Duo’s idea of a get-together, but to Quatre, it was exactly that four spoiled men needed to ditch the glitz and glamour every once in a while. Since he was at the wheel, no protests were taken into consideration. If they were going to surprise him out of the blue then they might as well have dealt with his choice for the night.

It wasn’t a very long ride, but with Duo voicing all his paranoia about their destination in the vehicle, Quatre was close to strangling him. The other two occupants of the car were surprisingly muted despite the racket and were discussing the details of Heero’s new show. Quatre heard that the pilot episodes were going quite well and the buzz around it was positive. They’d only been shooting for a month, but Heero already seemed enamored by his new job.

“So how’d it go with the shoot today?” Duo addressed him instead of Heero.

He knew Duo was going to ask him eventually, but he was reluctant to divulge his opinions on Trowa to anyone out of respect.

“Okay.”

“You giving a different answer for me for the same question Wufei asked?” Quatre took a quick glance at the rear view mirror to see him pouting. It was too hard to resist not feeling like scum for causing that, so Quatre indulged him while trying his best to find an available parking spot. The parking signs were still as confusing as when he’d first moved to LA, causing him to re-read each sign and evaluate each open parking spot before taking the bait. It was harder than driving.

“Not so well,” he modified. “I didn’t get what Trowa wanted out of it or how he wanted it to go.”

“Dame Julienne flirt with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.”

Quatre would have questioned what Duo had meant by the mono-syllabic comment, but he was too busy reading one parking sign on top of another on an open spot. One sign read ‘no parking 9 am to 12 noon, Monday, street cleaning’. The one below it read ‘2 hour parking 8 am to 6 pm, Monday thru Friday’. Another below it read ‘no parking all other times, vehicles with permit exempt’. Maybe he should have let Heero drive.

“He see you naked yet?”

“Yeah. Today,” Quatre responded distractedly while reading yet another confusing sign.

“Wufei train you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wufei, does he look good underneath those college-era clothes?”

“Of course.”

He heard Wufei make a protest just in time to see Duo grab his phone and use it to text. There was some struggle in the back akin to children playing around before Quatre finally found a legitimate parking spot and parallel parked the hell out of it. It was an accomplishment all on its own.

“Who did you text?” Wufei said, sounding annoyed as he successfully yanked the phone back from Duo’s clutches. He wiped the screen on his shirt before looking at the contents and sending a text as well, probably to inform the recipient that it wasn’t him who sent it.

“Trowa. I just sent him a two word text - ‘You’re welcome’.”

Heero laughed a hearty one, clutching his stomach in the process. Quatre, for his part, didn’t care for what was so funny and exited the vehicle after watching out for oncoming traffic. When nobody followed him out after a good ten seconds, he pushed a button to lock the doors. That got the other three moving, pulling the locks back open and grumbling each their own annoyances at having been dealt such a sourpuss driver. When everyone was out, Quatre locked it once again.

“Follow me,” he said, leading them across the street and about a two block walk to an area of less disrepair than their parking spot. It was seven in the evening but still bright out. There were street vendors selling colorful fresh fruit on carts and hot dogs being cooked with aromatic onions on a metal tray. People wouldn’t have paid them much attention if it wasn’t for Duo’s all too noticeable allure. A number of people followed them, asking mostly for Duo’s autograph. Being the gregarious person everyone loved, Duo did not mind the numerous interruptions to their walk, the request for selfies or the pieces of paper (or skin) shoved Duo’s way with a pen, pencil, Sharpie or even lipstick for signing. The rest of them got a few requests now and then from the sheer coincidence of being within Duo’s range. His popularity level was just that astounding.

By the time they got to their destination, his companions didn’t even notice that they’d made it with Wufei letting out a heavy breath as if he’d survived such a large scale calamity.

“There might be more in here too,” Quatre warned, leaving the three to deal with the onslaught, making his way instead to the kitchen where he greeted a few people with a handshake, a pat on the back or a hug.

“Look at you, Quatre, looking better than ever. Kicked the habit yet?”

He nodded, putting his hands into his pockets out of habit.

“I heard you’re going to be in a new movie. I’ll definitely watch it.”

“Me too.”

“Heck, we’ll all watch it. We’ll chip in for the rest who can’t pay for a ticket.”

Quatre felt embarrassed at all the attention, ducking his head, wishing to pull up his hoodie over it. He ditched the dark sunglasses in the car earlier and wished he had that too.

“So you brought some popular friends over… and Heero Yuy.”

He internally snickered at the last bit.

“They helping out?”

“I have to feed them first. I’ll cover the expense. What are we serving today?”

“Good old meatloaf and gravy, mashed potatoes of the dehydrated variety, green beans from a can, a slice of apple pie and some fresh squeezed orange-pineapple juice to wash it all down. You sure your friends can handle the high quality?”

“They’ll survive,” he said with a casual wave of his hand before leaving the kitchen to retrieve the other three. Heero did not need instruction, already gathering a tray for himself and lining up for food. The other two were in somewhat of a shock.

“Is this what they call a soup kitchen?” Wufei asked, not figuring out where they ended up. That was excusable as he lived in a different country altogether. Duo, however, should have and did know where he was at.

“I almost forgot how much it reeked,” Duo whispered to him as Quatre handed him a tray.

Quatre did not deny the truth, lining up a few paces after Heero to get his food. He was sure the food wasn’t bad as the cook for the day was an actual chef for a high end establishment. He could make cheaper cuts of meat taste deliciously tender and canned vegetables taste fresh.

“Enjoy the meal, boys!” a cheerful lady exclaimed when they finished through the line, running to put a sprig of parsley on each their plates. “Bon appétit!”

They sat on a corner table Quatre let Duo pick and ate their meals with much appreciation. The juice was a little too sweet so Quatre opted instead for tap water. The health nut in Heero did the same, also skipping the apple pie and mashed potatoes.

“We should be paying for this,” Duo said with guilt and obvious delight at chomping on his juicy meatloaf. Whatever prejudices he held against that part of town became less pronounced. Quatre did not know if that was genuine kindness or grade A acting, but he knew enough of Duo to know that he understood what it was like to be homeless. Perhaps he had just forgotten.

“We are,” Quatre assured. Most of the people present in the mess hall respected their space with only a few younger teenagers unable to resist the urge to approach Duo. He was very obliging and very friendly. Heero also got quite a few fans, but they were all less bothersome than photographers. Another plus was that most everyone in the establishment didn’t own a cell phone.

“Nice touch, Quat,” Duo said, sounding genuinely impressed at his choice of food establishment for the night. “What do they call this place?”

“Heero Yuy Center for Urban Development.”

Duo almost choked on a green bean. Heero quickly explained.

“It was a Christmas present… from Quatre.”

“What?”

“Surprising choice. And how did you take it?” Wufei questioned, sipping on his juice. Duo was still too busy being surprised.

“I told him I would have preferred a car that didn’t sputter every couple of miles.”

Duo looked at him in distaste, informing him wordlessly of just how much he judged Heero’s materialistic tendency. He looked appalled at the rejection of a philanthropic opportunity. Duo himself was much involved in third world charities and he often traveled to those places.

“That was a joke,” Heero clarified when even Wufei looked dismayed. “I’m here once a week.”

“How does it run?”

Heero chewed well before answering.

“Ask Quatre. He runs it.”

Quatre stared at his food when the attention was redirected to him. He didn’t feel like talking about it, but answered the inquiry anyway. Maybe Duo was interested in following the model.

“After the initial set-up and expenses, it’s self-sufficient,” he said while picking a gooey slice of apple off its crust. “Along with food, they provide resources for securing jobs like showers, toiletries, suits and business casual clothing for interviews, coaches and counselors, just not the housing. Those who’ve found stable jobs or find themselves well off enough give back by volunteer work or monetary donations. So far, most people have been good in giving back so the place hasn’t run into financial problems.”

“Yet,” Duo added. “Some people can be assholes.” For such a positive guy, he could be so pessimistic about the world. Quatre supposed that meant he wouldn’t be following that model. “A nice guy like you is going to be taken for an idiot. I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

There was nothing nice about it, but nobody commented on it. Duo was a conundrum. Quatre finished the rest of his dessert, drinking his water in one go and observed Heero continuing to evaluate his plate of food, scraping off the gravy in fear of added calories.

“Maybe we should have brought Trowa with us,” Duo said off-handedly, also done with his meal. He stretched his arms behind him before resting his palms behind his neck. He looked around the place before landing his eyes back on Heero who continued to nit-pick at his food. “It wasn’t nice to leave him out.”

Heero snorted in response, finally giving up on the calorie count and consuming the rest of the meal on his plate. He wasn’t one to hold back, however, when he offered a supposition.

“He’s probably too busy taking a cold shower. ...That or finding some sort of relief for today’s ‘performance’. You could guess what I mean by that.”

Wufei sighed but looked amused anyway as Duo began laughing hysterically until he was red in the face. Whatever inside joke they carried on from the car continued, causing the occupants of the mess hall to look at them in question. Funny or not, it didn’t seem very nice to Trowa. Quatre frowned without realizing it.

“Now that we’re done eating, it’s time to get to work,” he said then rose from his seat.

“Oh, Quatre,” Duo said with dramatic effect, following suit with his tray in hand. “I’m going to guess you haven’t realized it, but that’s okay. He’ll just have to work extra hard to make you understand.”

Whatever patronizing remark Duo delivered was quickly dismissed and his day ended anyway with a text from Trowa in the middle of the night.

“Good job today,” his message read. It was very complimentary after he left without a word and also a little too distant and professional.

Quatre responded with a ‘thanks’ and almost placed his phone back on top of the dresser when another message came through almost instantly.

“Amazing body. Keep up the good work.”

The smiley face at the end of it was more disturbing than words could express and also more indicative of Duo than Trowa, so Quatre left that without a response. It was no wonder why people liked teasing them.

 


	8. Act Eight

He wasn’t nervous, far from it. He was simply fighting a sudden urge to get a fix. He’d been good for a while now and it was frustrating that the compulsion still existed. Sitting in his trailer, making everyone else outside wait, he felt guilty for being such a burden. He tried to sleep it off earlier, during the break for lunch, and just ended up tossing and turning in his sweaty clothes and on the protesting, creaky trailer-issue mattress. He heard at least one person come into his trailer while he was trying to get a nap in, felt eyes fixated on him (which didn’t help), felt a brush of fingers on his forehead (which was rather annoying when his skin was so sensitized), and heard the person leave without a word. If they were trying to wake him up then he was displeased at their assumption that he didn’t know what time the break ended. But he was not trying to nap now and knew what time it was.

He had to take a shower, at least to keep professional by not having anyone deal with the smell of his sweat. The make-up crew had come and gone. Wardrobe had come with back-up clothing, making sure he looked exactly as he did before the break. The hair guy had more to do, putting a blow-dry to his head and managing the tangles in his hair. Technically, he was ready for the shoot. Mentally, he was dealing with a serious case of anxiety, forcing him to refrain from taking one foot outside the trailer. Honestly, he didn’t want to end the day on a bad note, but it felt more and more like he would not be able to continue.

“Quatre, I’m coming in,” came the warning from the director before the trailer door was opened. Trowa invited himself in, taking the seat across from him. Quatre did not apologize for his tardiness and simply stared at Trowa’s shoes as a distraction.

“If you’re not feeling well, you could tell me and we could cancel.”

He wanted to say ‘yes, cancel the entire thing’ so he could head somewhere to find the relief he was searching for. It was just so tempting to ask around if anyone had pain killers to spare. Some Vicodin would surely be easy enough to find.

“Or are you just nervous?”

Quatre had already confirmed with his muddled brain that it wasn’t nerves. It was something entirely different. But he didn’t want to tell Trowa any of this because his pride was just that prohibitive.

“Look, have you ever kissed a guy?”

If Trowa was presuming his problem had to do with the next scene, then he didn’t protest. The crew outside might have been thinking the same. It was surely better than a drug addict having trouble dealing with withdrawal.

“No. Yes… At least not consensual.”

There was a pause, which forced Quatre to concentrate on the shoes once again. Trowa’s were shiny and new, looking decidedly uncomfortable, just as uncomfortable as he was feeling at the moment.

“Will you consent to me giving you tips for the next scene?”

A reluctant nod was all it took before Trowa pulled him up by the hand. He was standing now only a foot away from the director, still looking at an angle down on the floor. It was hard to look up when his eyes were probably showing his internal struggle.

“Will you consent to a kiss?”

Quatre immediately looked up to find the serious expression on Trowa’s face. He wanted to tell him that what he presumed was the problem really wasn’t. He didn’t mind kissing another man for the scene. Heck, he’d even French a goat if he had to. He wasn’t a prude.

“Sure,” he said anyway.

Despite being a hell of a dictator on the set, Trowa was a gentle man, Quatre noticed, as he placed one hand on his hip and the other on the side of his face. His cheek felt warmed by the barely there touch and he noticed, not for the first time, that Trowa’s dominant hand was his left.

“That’s right. Look just as stunned as you are now.”

Quatre didn’t know he looked anywhere near stunned. He didn’t think he actually was. All he could tell was that he felt a sudden sense of inexplicable security. The kindness in Trowa’s eyes, rather than the feel of his hands, forced a wave of calm.

Trowa ran his thumb from right to left over his lips with a feather-light touch before he gave his final warning.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, tilting his head sideways to avoid a collision of noses before going in for the promised kiss. The initial landing on his lips was almost imperceptible, like a shy but long, drawn out peck. It took nearly forever before he transferred the position of his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, tilting his head the other way. The hand on his hip slid up with gentle pressure going up his back to join the hand already behind his neck. It was somewhere in the middle of that movement that he delivered the second landing with an open-mouthed kiss and just the barest hint of tongue. The third variation coaxed his own docile mouth open to deliver an experimental exploration of the insides of his mouth. It didn’t take another modification of the kiss for Quatre to respond, allowing his own tongue to do some investigation of his own. Before he knew it, he was kissing Trowa fully, studying the tingling sensation in and around his mouth as he hung on to the other’s arms with both hands. This went on for a while before Trowa broke off with a gentle push with his thumbs on the side of his neck.

“I could almost see the cogwheels in your head working out the technical aspects of what is supposed to be a natural and spontaneous act,” Trowa accused with a sigh. He let go of him and put his hands in his pockets. “But that’s the point of acting I guess.”

Quatre didn’t know what to make of that. He sounded offended but resigned all at once. Quatre was also sure he wouldn’t be able to replicate what they’d just done unless Trowa had already given his partner the same tips with a just as detailed a demonstration. Despite all that, Trowa was a good kisser for sure.

“I’m sorry. I--”

“The acting was top-notch.”

He didn’t know why he felt embarrassed by the clipped reaction but he did. Keeping whatever else he wanted to say to himself, he unconsciously licked his lips and stared back at the ground. He supposed that sobered him up somewhat. Whatever voodoo magic the kiss held killed his urge for drugs for the time being.

“I’ll be ready. No more than five minutes,” he promised. Trowa left without another word.

The day wrapped up with no other problems. Somehow, even with the post-lunch delay, the day’s goals were met. Re-takes were few and his partner for the day was impeccable with his lines, leaving no reason for him to slack off either. It was the first and last time he would see the actor and it was natural that they exchanged pleasantries after. They parted with professional goodbyes and their respective well-wishes for each other’s careers. Quatre thought it went well enough. That was another successful day of legitimate work and another successful day of battling his addiction. Again, Trowa did not say his own goodbyes as he took his leave. It was becoming the norm in the weeks they had been filming.

Changing back into his typical choice clothing, he left his trailer sparkling clean. It was still bright out when he made it to the parking lot where several of the others were taking their leave. That didn’t mean that he could have stopped himself from jumping up in surprise when he was suddenly intercepted to his vehicle. A woman he knew too well, in typical hipster clothing shocked him with a teasing call of ‘boo!’. She was waving her hands in the air in a silly fashion before his car, causing a scene with her energy.

“Why so glum, Uncle Quat?”

He pushed the button on his key to unlock his vehicle. It was a nice change to be greeted with enthusiasm. Everyone else in the parking lot seemed tired from the long day.

“Thanks for the shock. I was within heart attack territory,” he said and that was somewhat true with his withdrawal-induced paranoia from earlier carrying on. “How did you know I was here and how did you get into the studio?”

“That’s not very friendly.” His niece came up to him and kissed him on the cheek before giving him a tight hug and a squeeze of his cheeks with her thumb and index fingers. He fought the urge to swat the hands away. There were too many witnesses to their exchange. “Nana said you were shooting in Burbank. They let me in here with no problems. I told them I was you.”

“You’re a twenty-five year old girl.”

“Exactly,” she said with a teasing wink, earning a deep frown from him. “Aw, come on. That wasn’t meant to be mean. Don’t look at me with those puppy eyes.”

“That, I do not have. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“It’s college, Uncle Quat. I could leave campus anytime I want. In fact, I did just that to visit my dear, old uncle.”

Quatre knew something was up but he waited for it. She didn’t show up unless she needed something and he knew this since they both lived in LA and he hadn’t seen her since the last time she needed something. She grabbed his arm and wrapped it around her own, almost pulling the limb from its sockets. That should have clued him in.

“Spill.”

“I need to borrow your house in La Jolla for a get-together.”

“You mean ‘wild college party’.”

“I mean a meeting between like-minded adults with the presence of varied food and beverages, with a goal of fraternizing for the purposes of healthy social bonding.”

That was the Winner smart mouth in her rephrasing his simple, straight to the point conclusion. He was not about to give in so easily.

“Your aunt has a house in La Jolla.”

“…With a husband and two teenagers. Not exactly the place for adult-related activities.”

Quatre did not want to speculate on the details of those adult-related activities. Putting his key into his pocket for the time being, he considered her request. He was never one to refuse his nieces and nephews anything and letting her use the house wasn’t the problem. It was his responsibility to his sisters to keep their children safe from harm and from the stupidity that came with alcohol. There was also the issue of the neighbors in the quiet community. They’d gotten used to his polite consideration of their expensively purchased peace. They would be livid if that was disturbed.

“Are you finally graduating this year?” he asked instead. He would hold off acquiescing for the time being, strategizing how he would handle the request. His niece’s response, as he predicted, was a sour one.

“I’m the black sheep of the family, remember?”

It was not the reaction he was expecting or the message he was intending to send. Quatre couldn’t help but pull her close, kissing the top of her head in commiseration. The flaxen tresses that touched his nose smelled like apples and hair products.

“That’s _my_ role,” he said with reprimand, feeling bad that he’d been inconsiderate. He knew somewhere in there, she was manipulating him and he didn’t mind that at all. He was guilty of that too and performed his own version of that every once in a while with more than just family members. It was a troublesome family trait. “Fine. You can use the house – for a graduation party. I want to see the official record. You could exchange that for the key.”

There was a pout and then a whining sound before his niece pulled away then laughed. If she was truly evil then he blamed his sister for it.

“Deal,” she said with a handshake. “I _am_ graduating in a few months and the party _was_ for that.”

Satisfied, he pulled the car key out of his pocket once again and bypassed her for the door. “Get in. Where do you want to eat for dinner?”

“I brought my own car.”

When she stayed where she was standing despite responding, Quatre began to wonder. He followed her line of sight and noticed that she was looking suspiciously at a corner and making a face that said she would not leave until she had finished her investigation. He was going to ask her what was wrong when she quickly voiced her observation.

“Your boyfriend has been staring at us for a while now.”

Quatre put the key to the ignition and started the vehicle, leaving his door open so he could hear her.

“I have neither girlfriend nor boyfriend right now, Anna. Get in the car. We’ll pick your car up later.”

When she didn’t budge, he pulled they key back out from the ignition and joined her to stare in the direction she was so intent on examining. There he saw Trowa walking casually to the parking lot. It didn’t look suspicious at all save for his niece’s evaluation of what she assumed was a stalking. Quatre would have to question him about that.

“Trowa,” he greeted first when the other came within range. The director gave him a professional-grade nod and continued to his vehicle. “Come and meet my niece. This is Anna Pratt.”

“Anna _Winner_ -Pratt,” his niece corrected, casually coming up to him and offering her hand. “Trowa Barton. Everyone knows who you are. Is it true what they’re saying?” she questioned as they exchanged handshakes.

“And what is it they’re saying?” Quatre asked for his own curiosity’s sake.

His niece retrieved her cell phone from her pocket, unlocked it and made a few swipes before shoving the oversize screen in his face. Twitter. Very typical. He perused of the contents she presented to him, swiped through several posts then balked.

“Rumors are just that. Rumors,” Trowa responded without even having to look at her phone, which meant that he knew exactly what she was referring to. Quatre began to understand why people had their eyes glued to their phones every five minutes. The post relayed some supposed events that happened that day. That was only a few hours ago, five at most. They were just a little too fast these days. He wondered who first started the rumor. Looking around the parking lot, he noticed a few who refused to make eye contact with him. Another few were sending their group of three wary smiles. He wished he could have read all their minds.

Anna, meanwhile, looked suspiciously at Trowa then at him then back at Trowa. “I’ll have you know he’s the family’s prized possession,” she warned, for whatever that was worth. Quatre was still too shocked of his discovery to react to her territorial claim.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Trowa responded. It took Quatre another few seconds before he could properly say anything. He let an all-encompassing sense of calm invade him before he handed the phone back to his niece. He didn’t need to lose his mind over this.

“So that was you in my trailer earlier?” he tried to ask as casually as he could. “When I was trying to sleep?”

Trowa nodded again in the professional variety that he’d been using since earlier. He didn’t look the least bit embarrassed by what he knew was currently trending on the popular app. It was only a matter of time before the witnesses in the parking lot misconstrued their meeting and Instagram-ed that too.

“It was you who made the ruckus inside your trailer,” Trowa offered. Fair enough, he was trying to get a comfortable position on the creaking mattress. There was audible movement in that alright.

“How long were you in there exactly?”

“A couple of minutes.”

“Long enough for people to suspect we were having sex?”

That was when Anna took an uncomfortable step back. Quatre didn’t care at that point. She brought it up and therefore brought it on herself. Not that he wasn’t grateful that he was informed of the situation.

They had kissed too. The original post was not far from the truth and was clearly plausible now that he thought about it. He felt like he was overreacting to the whole matter but he couldn’t help but feel that his reputation was at stake, just like his teenage years of character misrepresentation all over again. It became redundant and stressful to hear what people thought of him -- or his family. It was his insecurity coming back to haunt him.

“It’ll pass,” Trowa offered, again with an aloofness that was starting to grate on his nerves. For him, it was probably the norm. For Quatre, it was dreadfully typical.

“You better not have posted that yourself.” He said it before he thought things through and immediately regretted it. He knew it was uncalled for the minute he said it.

“Uncle Quat,” his niece finally intervened, pulling him aside to get him to calm down. “Uncle Quat, it’s just a rumor and there’s no definitive proof. I don’t think he would be a bastard enough to orchestrate that himself.” She sent Trowa a look anyway. She might as well have been his girlfriend with the way she defended his honor.

He didn’t know why he was so worried. This sort of thing happened all the time. He was always the one guy thought to be permanently attached to Trowa’s hip.

“Uncle Quatre!” his niece said again. He probably looked out of it. “So what, right?”

“Yeah,” he finally conceded. “I was overreacting.”

A small crowd had gathered around them with a few taking pictures with their phones. None of them, Quatre noticed with relief, was part of their crew. For his part, that would have been awkward to handle on the set the following day. Trowa, being the director, was a different matter altogether.

“Screw that,” his niece said as she pulled on Trowa with one arm and him with the other. “Let’s all three of us, including this A-lister director here, have dinner.”

“Bad idea.”

“Let’s,” Trowa said, suddenly smiling the tiniest bit while looking right at him. It was charming and Quatre felt wary of that. That produced a whole other slew of misunderstandings from the tiny crowd. It was hard not to accuse him of feeding the crowd’s appetite for gossip.

“You owe us dinner for that sly smile,” Anna said, also catching the almost imperceptible detail of his slightly upturned lips. Trowa did not protest.

“Sure,” he said, getting into the front passenger side of the vehicle that wasn’t his and closing the door after him. Quatre stared in the direction of where he entered.

“Still a bad idea,” Quatre muttered. His niece sent him a smile of her own - hers very apologetic and impish. Feeling defeated at this game, he entered the driver’s side and started the engine. Anna followed without prompting. That would be two people he would be dropping off in the studio after dinner. He hoped they would leave the gates open for them and he hoped nobody was planning to follow them around to take pictures.

“So, Mr. Director,” Anna said, leaning forward from her back seat and resting her hands and chin just above Trowa’s seat, lightly tapping his shoulder. “Where are you feeding us tonight?”

Trowa turned to her then to him before saying “You can ask my date.”

Quatre swore Trowa was doing all this on purpose and resigned himself to a night at the mercy of his two companions. And he thought quitting drugs was hard.

 


	9. Act Nine

Brutalized – that was the word for it. He had been brutalized. It had been too many takes to keep count, but he was definitely getting tired of being shoved and fake-assaulted again and again. He knew his lines well. How could he not after all those takes? His partner for the scene was struggling with the lines, the expression, the actions and seemingly everything under the sun. Trowa hadn’t called for a break yet, so they’d been going at it for most of the day. Not even the assistants could hide his sweat and the make-up crew had no problems retouching a face that was already the picture of anxiety. He couldn’t help but feel absolute dread whenever Trowa called out the words ‘cut’ and ‘back to one’. A hundred takes was not impossible.

He swiped a towel on his forehead, not caring much that the make-up had come off. The ice pack on his head was uncomfortably cold, but it helped alleviate the dull ache. Trowa was busy instructing his partner for the scene. He could almost hear the impatience in his voice and the growing tension that came with the tired crew, but he didn’t want to stop filming and Quatre didn’t want to lose whatever little time he had to take a breather. He badly wanted to go home for a shower and a long nap.

“No. Grab by both shoulders and shove. Harder! Shove harder!”

That was going to be him at the other end of that in a few minutes, unless Trowa decided to end the day. The likelihood of that happening was slim to none. He looked too focused, too determined to stop until they perfected the scene.

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine …as long as he doesn’t give me a concussion.”

Quatre bit his lip. There were no complaints coming out of him if he could help it. No. He would never complain about landing on his head not once but twice with a shove that was a little less violent than the one Trowa was demonstrating at the moment.

“Have you heard? Duo Maxwell is at the studios today and he’ll be visiting the set.”

Quatre picked up on that easily, ducking his head after placing a towel over it. He wasn’t ready for it. With Duo came the media and he was too beat up to deal with that. They were going to get him to stand aside, answer a few questions about the movie, how it was going, how the director was and all that.

“He brought his Bugati.”

It was no surprise. All the cars Duo owned ended with an ‘I’ – Bugati, Maserati, Ferrari and Lamborghini. He was too flashy and Quatre wasn’t feeling up to being part of that, not even for publicity. He hoped Trowa was done coaching because he was just about ready to get slaughtered again. This was a harder workout than Wufei ever put him through.

“Alright, everyone back to one.”

The make-up crew did a quick touch-up on him as he breathed deeply in and out, leaving the ice pack on a table in the process. He imagined the serenity of an upcoming long weekend alone with no visitors. It was liberating and relaxing, just in time for him to go through another assault. He was almost at the peak of relaxation when he felt a tap on his shoulder accompanied by a too exuberant greeting.

“Hey bud, thought I’d drop by to see how you and Trowa were doing with the film.”

He did not want to open his eyes.

“I brought the Entertainment Tonight folks with me.”

He definitely did not want to open his eyes now.

“Be nice and say hello.”

His upbringing forced him to comply. The camera was on him before he even agreed. He didn’t know what was worse, the bright light assaulting his eyeballs, the microphone shoved too close to his face or Duo’s grinning face looking like he’d won something. His now darker hair seemed to bounce with his approving thumbs up.

“I always knew you’d look great in a dress.”

It was going to happen one way or another, whether he liked it or not. He smiled his brightest and prepared to be interviewed. They asked him simple enough questions and he thought he responded cordially enough, making a joke every now and then, laughing a bit at their banter, praising the director as if he were a god and generally working a good enough segment to include in their upcoming show. It didn’t matter if Duo thought he did well enough because not a few minutes in, he’d already disappeared somewhere on the set. Whatever accusations of abandonment he wanted to throw went out the window when he realized that Duo was helping Trowa with the scene.

“Nah, man! You’ve got to visualize and stop being scared of hurting him. He’s tougher than he looks.”

Trowa nodded to that. It wasn’t long before Duo noticed him watching and pulled him into the scene.

“Look, where’s the script,” he said while reading with one hand and keeping his other hand secured around his wrist. Quatre didn’t think he was the type to run out on Duo, but he didn’t want to stand waiting there while he read on either. The camera crew of Entertainment Tonight was on them in an instant. Trowa protested to none of it as he was too interested to see how their rendering of the scene would turn out.

“I got it,” Duo said after reading a few lines, jovially tossing the script out of the way which was surprisingly caught by one of the assistants. Quatre thought that was rather rude. “Me and Blondie over here will enact the scene for our struggling artist.” Duo didn’t even ask for his permission, but then again, he never did.

Quatre was amazed when Duo’s expression suddenly changed and the mood in the set darkened. Like flipping a switch, Duo became a different person. Quatre suddenly felt scared and insecure being anywhere near the usually cheerful actor. He couldn’t help but take a step back, a step back that caused Duo’s hand to tighten its grip on his wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Duo said with a menacing voice. His eyes were hooded underneath dark bangs. “Did you think I’d let you get away that easily?”

“Stop being delusional.” Quatre’s lines easily flowed out of his mouth. “That wasn’t even what we agreed on. We said forty-sixty and you got your sixty when—”

There was a slap, an actual slap. Duo slapped him so hard while keeping a death grip on his wrist that he thought his head would get separated from his neck. It stung so bad there were tears forming in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let those tears fall though. He was tougher than that.

“I haven’t gotten my sixty yet, at least not technically,” Duo said with a gentle whisper. The underlying threat was there, palpable in the tense air. “Don’t you dare change the terms of the deal, sugar.”

Duo twisted his arm behind him with the continued grip on his wrist and shoved him against the wall, the very sturdy wall that felt like concrete slapping against the side of his face and his entire front side. That had been an authentic shove too with the way the wall sounded as he collided with it. He was hurt and very scared. He was sure the expression on his face was genuine.

“Look, let’s not get too hasty—“

“Shut up!”

Whatever anger Duo must have truly felt for him must have been deep enough to cause him to throw him on the bare mattress and place two hands around his throat. It wasn’t tight enough to cut off his intake of oxygen but tight enough to cause limited breathing. He could barely get any air to his system as his hands immediately attempted to dislodge Duo’s hold and free himself of the grip. He shoved a knee up Duo’s stomach, causing the other to roll away from him in writhing agony. He didn’t even think that had been hard enough compared to what Duo had been doing to him thus far. But that acting was pretty good.

“Cut! Perfect. I want it exactly as you saw it.”

There were claps everywhere, including applause from the crew of the entertainment show that had filmed their scene without permission. Quatre didn’t feel any bit of embarrassment or pride at what they’d done just utter relief as he attempted to get up from the mattress. Duo didn’t let him, however, pulling him down with a solid grip to his side and locking him in place with limbs. Ominously above him, Duo looked down at his face with an unreadable smirk.

“What did you think of that, Quat?”

“It was good.”

Duo bent his head down and whispered to his ear.

“It was _damn_ good, Quat. I was fucking great. Let’s see if you could do better than that.”

He shoved Duo off him then, earning them surprised glances from the surrounding crowd. Not having heard their last conversation, many wondered what they had been talking about to cause such a reaction from him. Quatre wasn’t angry, not really despite his aching shoulder.

“Whoa! I didn’t hit you too hard did I?”

The answer to that was ‘yes’, but only he would know. To everyone else, it was all just part of the act.

“No,” he muttered, stepping out of the set to get his make-up redone. He was tired and sore and probably now part of a rumor about a possible feud with Duo Maxwell. He wanted to get the scenes over with, with or without unnecessary people watching.

“Back to one everyone.”

It took another three tries, but at the end of the third, the scene was finally to Trowa’s liking. As much as he didn’t want to remember, he imagined Duo’s face transplanted on his partner’s as the man, taking the cue from Duo, struck him in various ways. The only difference this time was that he didn’t hold back. By the time they finished, he felt like he’d just gone through a losing twelve round boxing match after having to regurgitate the same lines over and over again.

With much relief, he arrived back home with little to no traffic. Noam greeted him with a lick and a nudge but he was too tired to reciprocate. The first order of business was a shower. The fall of hot water looked inviting as he ignored the incoming call on his cell.  Whoever it was, it would have to wait.

“Please don’t be Heero or Wufei… or Duo or Trowa,” he said over and over, letting the scalding water hit his aching muscles. He wanted the longest shower possible and not another two cell phone calls would cause him to leave it earlier.

When he was finished, he rubbed the towel to himself, noting belatedly that all the missed calls had been from Trowa. He crossed his fingers, hoping that he did not want him to come back to the set to take another beating. That was too much for one day.

“Please don’t,” he said to himself before noticing a text received from Trowa earlier.

“I’m coming over,” it said. That was at least thirty to forty-five minutes ago. A knock on his door followed.

“Why?” he cried out to no one in particular, running for the door with only a towel on him. Trowa had come over alright, with little warning and no permission.

“I brought you some bruise cream,” he announced, holding a jar of some cream up to eye level before pushing his way in the way Heero would. Someone had to teach these people some manners. “I noticed you bruised easy.”

Quatre rolled his eyes at Trowa’s back. That wasn’t true at all and the director could have just as easily prevented the source of the problem. He’d just been as brutal as the scene. Quatre knew it came with the territory, but Trowa’s focus had been something to behold.

“Let me check those bruises.”

Quatre stiffened when Trowa picked up his hand and put his not-really-bruised wrist to his lips.

“That looks tender,” he said casually as if he hadn’t just done what Quatre thought he did. He opened the jar and applied the cream to the ‘affected’ area. “Looks like he got your neck too,” he said next, kissing aforementioned body part gently before applying the cream once again. He followed the same process wordlessly on his rib and hipbone.

“I think you got all of it.”

He apparently did not. Trowa pulled his towel apart, letting it drop to the floor. A cold breeze was the inevitable outcome of his sudden exposure, but he did not notice that. What he noticed first and foremost was the way Trowa dropped kisses on his arms, chest and back following no pattern at all while circling him like a predator. He did not have the chance to ask what exactly he was trying to accomplish when the kisses moved to his legs then his thighs then just a little too close to his more sensitive areas.

He inhaled deeply when Trowa licked experimentally then devoured him all at once. It was both shocking and thrilling to watch the wholly knew experience of another man pleasuring him. Eager was the word he would use to describe the bobbing of Trowa’s head and fisting of his hand against him as he gripped his hip and held it back just slightly when he pushed in too deep.

Quatre let out an unintended groan, allowing his fingers to bury themselves in Trowa’s hair. It was the only tangible object he could grab short of falling over due to his quaking knees. The ahs, hahs and ohs echoed in his own ears, causing somewhat of a temporary self-deafening. The feeling of the suction, the friction and the velvet warmth and softness of Trowa’s mouth and tongue were indescribable. It caused an escalating and promising sensation at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mind this, not at all. He’d get beaten up all over again for this, he thought.

There were, for him, temporary moments of dissociation from the whole act, quick moments of forgetting Trowa was another man, but none of that seemed to matter eventually in his quickly addling brain. He might have been leaning over gripping Trowa’s back and shoulder or leaning backwards with hands on Trowa’s head with knees bent forward - whatever the position he could no longer process as he allowed himself to let go forcefully and thoroughly with the circumstances of the situation to be evaluated for later. The release was intense, prolonged and very much appreciated. By the time he had finished riding out the passionate wave, his limbs felt like they could no longer hold him up.

Trowa finished off his stunt with a pop of his mouth, licking his lips in evident satisfaction before promptly securing the towel back around his waist and standing up.

“Get dressed. I’ll make dinner.”

Quatre decided that he wasn’t going to bring it up unless encouraged. Putting a clean set of clothes on, he joined him in the kitchen as his guest dug around his refrigerator.

“Salmon and broccoli okay with you? It should be a quick cook.” Trowa asked as if nothing suspicious had happened beforehand. “I could make a side salad too.”

That mouth that was only moments ago on him, spoke as if nothing had happened.

“Sure.”

Trowa’s cooking all happened in silence but not the awkward kind of silence he was expecting. Dexterous hands worked on their dinner with the same ease they manipulated his body earlier. Quatre placed his sleepy and injured head on top of folded arms and watched him work his way around the kitchen. It was domestic, the kind of thing that happened in a home that wasn’t his with a couple that wasn’t them.

“Sleepy?” Trowa questioned. He transferred the cooked salmon to a plate and squeezed some lemon on top before adding the steamed vegetables on the side of the plate. “You’re going to have to eat first.” He tossed a salad next and put it on a separate bowl before putting them all on the counter in front of him. “Eat up.”

Quatre picked up his fork with no further inducements and began eating his meal without waiting. Trowa poured water on two glasses and joined him shortly after.

“You did well today.” It was his first praise the entire day.

“Thanks.”

“You’re very patient.”

“I try.”

There was a short pause from Trowa followed by a smiling sigh, an action he didn’t know was possible.

“You were patient with me back in the day too.”

Quatre bit a bud off a piece of broccoli and chewed.

“I was?”

“I guess you don’t remember,” Trowa said while moving a piece of salmon around on his plate. “I had trouble with my lines… all the time. Most of the crew treated me like an idiot and claimed that I was all looks and no brains. You helped me memorize and you were infinitely patient with me when I forgot.”

“Oh.”

“You were a lot more talkative then too.”

“I was.”

“I even had a crush on you.”

That was when the awkward part of awkward silence suddenly made its appearance.

“Then why didn’t you give me the blowjob back then?”

Regrets were something that happened after callous words were said, but he was old enough to know the consequences and this was not one of those instances that called for it. He meant every word and he was definitely not embarrassed to ask.

“I didn’t know you could be so direct.” Direct was something Trowa had done more than a few times that day.

“Wufei thought I couldn’t be funny either, but here I am.”

He shrugged then continued eating at a more moderate pace. It was going to take forever to consume supper if they both just played around with their food.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

If Trowa was going to evade then he wasn’t going to pursue. This was something he also had to figure out about himself.

“Were you really part of the circus or was that just a selling point?”

“I _did_ grow up at the circus.” Trowa drank quite a bit of his water before continuing. “I started out a clown when I was young then moved on to the trapeze and balancing acts. My agent really did find me there before turning me into a fashion model.”

“You definitely have the body for it, even now.”

Quatre was not averse to giving honest compliments. Some things just changed as you got older. He found that he was more honest these days. It was just easier that way.

“Thanks. Do you really have 29 sisters?”

He chuckled, earning him a surprised stare from his companion.

“Four, none of them from test tubes and that is probably the worst made-up fact on the show. Have you played the flute since?

“No. It was a pain to learn just that one piece for the shoot. They stuck me with an instructor for a good two months. Do you actually play the violin?”

“I just learned that one piece for the show. But I know how to play the piano.”

“The violin is a lot more complicated to learn for the just the show,” Trowa said, working on his salad next. He chewed for a little while before continuing.  “Did you like being on the show?”

That one was complicated. Now that he thought about it, he did like it. He liked being able to travel to different parts of the world like the Sahara or Singapore or Corsica. He liked playing around in the studios pretending to float around in zero gravity or play with the controls to his giant robot. For a child, it was a whole lot of fun and a great place to expend copious amounts of pent-up energy. Sure, it had been hard to get up very early in the morning and some of the training was challenging  (like learning how to fence properly or learning how to handle a gun or even learning the violin well enough for a decent duet) but it was fulfilling, something he hadn’t felt since before he quit his previous job.

“I liked doing it,” he responded though that was the truth he didn’t like admitting. “I wanted to do it for another few seasons. It was a nice alternative to reality.”

Trowa nodded. He consumed his meal at a more reasonable pace this time, not asking any more questions or considering conversation. Quatre enjoyed that silence, concentrating instead on his food and not on his growing lethargy.  He was sated, full and getting sleepy. He hoped Trowa would make his way out soon.

As if mind reading, Trowa did just that, leaving him to take care of the dishes in exchange for having prepared dinner. He was nice enough, however, to put them into the sink for later washing. He left the bruise cream where he’d last dropped it, quietly making his way to the front door to leave him in peace.

“What I liked best were the people I met,” he said with a gentle expression before closing the door on his way out.


	10. Act Ten

The weeks went by quickly enough and not before long, they were already starting the European tour of their shoot. It was hard to tell how much input Wufei had on their choice of lodgings and also hard to evaluate if he was a shrewd enough businessman when the accountant was probably in charge. All he knew was that production did not spare any expense with the lodgings. They didn’t exactly put them up at the Ritz in Madrid, but they did rent out the entire floor of the Westin Palace for the week. Trowa, of course, got the royal suite while the bigger names took up the remaining junior suites. Quatre took residence in a lesser room with a production assistant named Chris. Chris was independent enough that Quatre saw very little of him, leaving him with all the privacy he needed.

That night, a few of them invited themselves into Trowa’s suite. In the unnecessary expanse of the room, some watched TV, availed of the massage chair or had dinner served in the eight seat dining room. Quatre himself had refused to join in, wanting to retire for the night in his own room. He was called a few names along the line of spoilsport and killjoy before finally acquiescing to their request.

Currently, he was seated on a lounge chair, taking part in the bonding, as they called it, between the actors. Still dressed for the last scene they shot, he was painfully out of place in a sea of pajamas and sleepwear of all variety. He noted Trowa was busy in the opulence that was the study that came with the suite, but didn’t seem to mind the commotion going on around him. When he was comfortable enough that the director didn’t mind the presence of a few extra guests, Quatre lightened-up a bit, indulging his current companions by listening to their conversation.

“I love this city. I’m moving here the first time I get a chance.”

“All the jobs for you would be in LA.”

“Screw it. I’ll learn Spanish and find an acting gig here.”

It would be an early day tomorrow and Trowa probably needed to focus on what he was doing, but Quatre was reluctant to break up the get-together as it seemed to be helping them gel.

“What about you, Quatre? Ever think of moving here?”

“Really, Jess, you would ask him? He probably has a house in every city in Europe.”

“Seriously?”

“Hello! The Winner part of his last name actually means something.”

“I thought that rich kid thing was just a premise of that robot show. You’re actually loaded? What are you doing holing up in a dingy room?”

_Now_ he wanted to leave.

“Jess, I need you for a second,” Trowa came up to them suddenly, interrupting their conversation. He had his glasses on and held a pen and a script in one hand, looking more distinguished than any of them did.

“This constitutes overtime.”

“You’re not paid by the hour. Get your ass in the study.” When his command was grudgingly followed, Trowa gave their circle a once over before pointing a finger at Quatre. “And let him sleep. I need him looking fresh in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, calm down.”

They didn’t take it seriously and Quatre found himself exchanging stories and bits of trivia with them. It was all going well when they brought up the drugs, which he didn’t deem a necessary discussion. It was more common than one would think in the business and he wouldn’t consider himself a special case in any way. Despite that, he didn’t like talking about his experiences for the sole purpose of refusing to glorify it to his younger co-stars. If they were aware of his reluctance to talk about it, they didn’t press, instead moving on to the next topic they deemed interesting.

“Dating anyone right now, Quatre?”

He was currently massaging the legs of a petit Ms. Robyn who had demanded he knead her muscles after a day of mostly standing. That was as close as he’d gotten to a woman since they shot the love scenes for the movie. Even before that, he didn’t remember. He hadn’t dated in a while, not since he’d broken-up with his fiancée of three years. She had her own family now, the same family he imagined with her when he asked her to marry him.

“No.”

Ms. Robyn let out a satisfied sigh as she stretched out further in the couch she had relocated him to after her demand. She was enjoying the massage and was broadcasting that to the entire suite.

“What a waste. If you weren’t gay, I’d totally go for you right now,” she said.

“I’m not - gay, that is.”

Quatre didn’t think that was such a shock but with the way they all but stopped in their tracks and stared at him, he thought it was a major, life-altering revelation. If it had to do with the show from years ago then he wasn’t surprised. He stopped being surprised after they teased him in high school and misunderstood him in college. He stopped caring after the umpteenth guy boldly hit on him and he stopped thinking about it when the second to the last one threw himself out of a building. Whatever happened and might still be happening with Trowa was inconsequential to him.

“I cannot believe I got that completely wrong.”

In unison, they all directed their attention to the study visible from where they sat. Quatre was not surprised about that either. He knew they were within hearing distance.

“But you’re like the perfect guy - sweet, good-looking with good manners and proper hygiene. Not to mention rich.”

“Hey! What are the rest of us? Chopped liver?”

Protests were ignored for the most part as Quatre suddenly became a person of interest. He didn’t mean for that to happen. They just happened to stumble upon a topic well-treaded but always, for some reason, relevant to his person. When the women stared at him, he felt uncomfortable, wanting to close in on himself, but he held back. That wouldn’t look dignified at all.

“You mean?” one of them asked him. She tilted her head only slightly as if studying him for lies.

“What?”

“I’m taking you with me.”

An hour later, there was even less basis for his misconstrued sexuality. Now the last time he’d been with a woman, two women at once, he might add, was but minutes ago. The female roommate had been much too pleased with the development and Quatre’s restraint had flown off the window. He would never admit that it was to prove a point because then he would have to admit he was petty. There were always miserly reasons like that and it happened more often than he cared to admit. He didn’t consider himself stupid, just overprotective of his reputation, which was tarnished by now since he considered himself a proper gentleman. Too many years of ridicule had done its damage to his decorum. Nevertheless, it was a nice change from having to jump away whenever another guy touched him without warning.

Quietly leaving the room, he was thanked by two rather satisfied ladies. There were no performance issues there either. Quatre Winner was an overachiever, even when it came to drug abuse. He buttoned his frilled shirt on the way out, wanting to leave quickly as it was far too late in the night to be up and about. It was only a few hours until filming and though the ladies he left behind retired late, they were not required to be at the set the next day. He would have to talk to the crew about his schedule eventually. They didn’t let him leave until late in the night and expected him to be back by sunrise. Not that Trowa ever complained about his own schedule. Perhaps he was just being too demanding.

“Quatre.”

He’d just finished closing the door behind him and secured the third button on his shirt or blouse - from the set, he reminded himself, when he was summoned. He couldn’t believe how long he had to stay in the outfit before he was allowed to finally change. Trowa was pointing at him again before using his hand to beckon him back to the suite. He fought the urge to look embarrassed. He certainly did not want to gain a reputation.

“Get in here,” Trowa prompted further and he had no choice but to follow.

When he made it into the room, he noticed that it was abandoned, the crew all but gone for the night. It was eerily quiet in the large space with the only indication that there had been people in there being the mess they left in their wake. Chairs were not placed back into their proper positions, plates of room service food were still on the dining table and all manner of emptied or half-emptied bottles of drinks lay about. He had to urge to pick up a trash bag and begin tidying up the place.

“I’ll help you clean up,” he offered.

“There’s hospitality service for that.”

He made a face, picking up a bottle of water from the ground anyway and at least placing it on top of a coffee table.

“If that’s it, I would like to go back to my room to take a shower.”

“There are showers here, in multiples.”

“I need a change of clothes.”

“The bathrobes come in troves.”

Trowa did not mention anything about what had obviously just transpired in the room that was not his, but he seemed intent on keeping him from retiring for the night as he’d suggested earlier. There were no reprimands either since that really was none of his business.

“Thanks for the shower.” Quatre delivered his thanks without looking at him, venturing forth into the suite to find a suitable place to wash himself. The make-up came off hours ago, but he still scrubbed his face clean to make sure he got all of it out. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered how much closer to a woman he resembled.

“I’ll order dinner.” Trowa knocked from the door, startling him from his momentary reverie.

“It’s late.”

“They didn’t feed you after the shoot and you didn’t eat with the rest of them earlier.”

Quatre considered this. He wasn’t hungry at all, just parched.

“I’ll skip. I just need a drink.”

He washed himself quickly, wanting to just go to sleep for the night. A cotton terry robe was waiting for him after the shower just as promised paired with bedroom slippers still in its plastic container. He put those on quickly, ran his hands through his wet hair and exited to find a ‘drink’ waiting for him. Scotch on the rocks was not what he had in mind when he said he needed a drink.

He didn’t inform Trowa that he didn’t drink alcohol and knew his host would find no offense in it when he bypassed him for the fridge to grab a bottle of sparkling water. He would have preferred mineral water, but sparkling was all the fridge had to offer.

“Join me,” Trowa said in mild suggestion, sounding both wary and insistent all at once. He was nursing his drink of choice, swirling the liquid in its glass container. The nice amber tint of the alcohol looked particularly elegant swirling about around a singular clear iceberg. It looked just as chic as the man holding it. Trowa may have looked tired, but he was regal in his exhaustion.

Quatre did as he was told, accessing a bottle opener from the tray of alcoholic beverages in front of Trowa on the coffee table. His drink was opened with a pop and a fizz. It felt nice but tasted bitter as it went down his throat.

“I thought you wanted me to look fresh for the shoot tomorrow,” Quatre started when it seemed Trowa would make no move to explain why he didn’t want him to go back to his own room.

“You look fresh right now.”

“I mean well-rested.”

“Ah.”

He offered no explanations, just directed his weary eyes at him in contemplation. The script with the notes was next to him on the couch, probably wanting to take a break from all the work done on it as well.

“You get along better with them than I expected,” he said, taking another swig of his drink.

“I’m not unsociable.”

“With me, you are.”

Quatre considered that accusation. It was merited. It was definitely merited. What excuse did he have to give for that? He didn’t know. But he was also unsociable with the other four and his manner of dealing with people really depended on necessity. Growing up a Winner required impeccable social graces no matter what the situation called for.

“I’m more familiar with you,” he reasoned.

“Are you?”

That was true, but he was still cautious around him for reasons that involved the show from years ago and the insinuations that came with it. He didn’t mind the rumors. What he minded was that they were unfounded. These days, there was some truth to it and he didn’t know what to do with that.

“Who got to be the first guy to kiss you?”

Trowa sounded jealous and Quatre, coupled with Trowa’s revelation of his teenage crush a few weeks back, was not dense enough not figure out what it meant.

“It had to do with blackmail.” It was the only detail he would submit.

Trowa rose from his seat and put down his drink. Like an anxious dog, he walked back on forth within the limited space in front of the coffee table separating them. It may have been the alcohol. It may have been the exhaustion. But Quatre thought, most likely, it was a combination of both. He didn’t look drunk at least.

“You should probably rest up for the night.” It was probably already morning, by Quatre’s estimation, but that didn’t matter. They both needed to rest.

Trowa stopped in his movements, left his side of the coffee table to go around to invade Quatre’s personal space, a personal space that was so small that Trowa almost tumbled over him. Placing one secure hand to rest in the cushioned backrest just above his shoulder, he leaned down and sniffed, again, just like a dog. Quatre always though he resembled a cat more than any other animal. Today, he was different.

“You still have a woman’s smell on you,” he said and Quatre almost bristled at that. It was his first mention of the events that transpired only moments before he invited him to his suite. He didn’t react, just sat there in stunned silence.

“I understand if I’m not your inclination,” Trowa continued and backed away. He seemed to hesitate before taking up his former position, only this time with both hands secured just above his shoulder. Quatre did not feel threatened, only flustered as he remembered how good Trowa had been with him. He had been a good kisser and more.

When Trowa kissed his neck, he did not stop him, just held still enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Are you drunk?” he questioned, not wanting the director to regret it when he become sober.

Trowa laughed then, low and hollow in his throat just a little bit too close to Quatre’s ear.

“I don’t have to be drunk to flirt with you, do I?”

“You’re right. No.”

“I haven’t finished one glass.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Trowa moved to kiss the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Somewhere in his mind, he wondered if there should have been a hierarchal order in their relationship. Trowa was technically the boss. He remembered being in this sort of situation before and it dampened his desire to continue on.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s going to be an early day.”

“It’s too late to go to bed.”

Trowa’s insistence was laudable and very distracting when he reached to untie the knot on his robe. Quatre would make it his resolution to never take Trowa’s invitation again. He couldn’t resist the skilled hand going for his vulnerable spots like he’d read it in a textbook somewhere and studied it. His skin, engulfed in kisses, felt sensitized and the heady feeling in his sleep deprived brain made no other moves to dissuade his companion. He briefly wondered if his recent promiscuity had anything to do with the drugs, but thought against it. It was probably his sense of rebellion once again taking a hold of him.

“You asked why I didn’t… do it back then,” Trowa said, rephrasing the question Quatre had once presented but never got an answer to. He looked around the vicinity to check if they were indeed alone and if this encounter was, in fact, as private as he wanted it to be. “I was too shy to even approach you.”

He certainly wasn’t shy now. Quatre didn’t know if it was age that did it or if it was pent-up frustrations from years ago. He could only be victim to its appearance now and it wasn’t, as he thought about it further, all that bad once Trowa’s hand found purchase on him. Larger and more calloused than a woman’s, it easily enveloped him in its firm grip. He let his head fall back on his seat and closed his eyes. If even possible, he was so much gentler than the women were as the lazy movement in the form of not-quite yanks he delivered brought both lulling relief and budding escalation to the pit of his stomach all at once. He felt warm and comfortable, even as his robe was pushed aside one shoulder and his nipple was suckled. Unlike their previous encounter, he refused to be witness to this. It felt so much more intimate, so much more taboo.

“Forgive me for never asking,” Trowa said with both his hands keeping busy, therefore, distracting Quatre from saying anything in response. He didn’t know the context of the pardon but he would figure it out eventually. For now, he kept his eyes shut; not wanting to see what Trowa was not asking permission for.

There was quite a bit of movement of which Quatre could only guess the reasons for. He felt Trowa abandon his personal space for a moment, leaving him with his robe halfway down his shoulder and his need unattended. He almost whined, almost, but kept his mouth shut. It was just too much activity for one night and not even in his teenage years did he have this much going on. There was no reason to complain and all the more reason to be patient.

Trowa returned not soon after with mystery sounds and mystery movements. He felt the attention on him again and tried not to fall asleep despite feeling the comforting call of the sandman. What jolted him awake suddenly was the feeling of a very tight warmth engulfing him. His eyes flew open. Trowa certainly didn’t ask. He didn’t know if he wanted to forgive.

He was in mild shock when he saw Trowa’s chest level with his eyes, heaving slightly as he continued to lower himself into him. It was only so much Quatre could do to stare at his body, the body he’d seen so many times in a magazine, splayed with the richness of expensive cloths and accouterments most people could not hope to afford. It was, if he had to describe it, visually appealing with a natural tan and a light sheen of moisture adorning it. His face, however, would remain one of ambiguity as Quatre would not dare allow himself to see what kind of reaction he’d caused on another man. He honestly did not want to find any sort of thrill in it nor did he want to find excitement in the equally male organ plastered against his abdomen. His closed his eyes again, feeling somewhat guilty at refusing to acknowledge Trowa as he was.

What he was turned out to be skilled and sensual and wholly erotic. He was unrestrained with the sounds he made and Quatre had to admit that he sounded beautiful. He sounded like the Trowa no one knew, the man so reserved you could barely hold a conversation with him. It pleased him to cause that kind of reaction, causing within himself an intensification of sensations. He couldn’t help but grip with firmness at the other’s hipbones and push up with impatience. He lasted laudably, at least longer than Trowa did, who all but spilled all over his stomach with a glorious cry.

No. He definitely did not know what he was getting himself into and he hoped that the rest of the crew who had their suspicions would keep their mouths shut about it.


	11. Act Eleven

Today, they were in Bordeaux, and if the fair happening in front of a majestic, horse-laden sculpture fountain was any indication, it was a weekend. The plaza was brimming with people and activity that time of day. Quatre sat on a park bench with a cone in hand, licking at a gelato, his treat for the late morning after having gone on an intense work-out session finished off with a five mile run. The replacement personal trainer with bulging muscles had scolded him none too gently for his eating habits and had caused shame upon a not-really-there gut. Quatre thought he looked perfectly fine, even tried to pinch some extra skin on his stomach with little success. In his opinion, he needed a little more meat on his bones, meat that his current role absolutely forbade. But if there was any a time he was going to acquire body images issues, it wasn’t going to be now.

It was as nice a time as any to watch the locals go about their business, this being a city where they cared less about the celebrities. He hadn’t been recognized yet. Not that he was known enough and the hood covering his head might have helped his case. Nevertheless, he felt normal just sitting, people-watching and hopefully not looking like a suspicious character. 

“I finally caught up to you.” 

It was their day off from filming and he expected to be allowed leisure time to take in the city. Trowa’s sudden appearance was not an unwelcome sight, but having your director following you around was almost akin to work. From the looks of it, Trowa had been running behind him. He was breathing heavily, almost wheezing, with his hands on his knees to keep him steady. 

“You run like a cheetah.”

Cheetahs had no stamina. Quatre shrugged. His speed was to be expected when you grew up a boy who looked more like a girl. He may have been living an unhealthy lifestyle the past few years, but running was a necessary part of survival and he wasn’t going to lose that edge. 

“How long?” More specifically, he wanted to know how far back he'd been followed, but he wasn't going to sound like he was accusing him of anything. 

“Since you left the hotel,” Trowa responded, still trying to catch his breath. “You didn’t even break a sweat.” 

The cold pistachio-laden flavor hitting his tongue was delightful and he continued to lick that pleasant texture while watching Trowa try to get his breathing back to normal. He was, thankfully, dressed in a more conservative jogging outfit rather than obscene-length shorts. When he was back to normal breathing, Trowa looked up at him with a word of advice. 

“You should take the hood off. You look like a criminal.” 

As soon as he did what he was told, Trowa retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and took a picture. He would have protested the unwarranted act, but Trowa explained immediately. 

“I’m sending Wufei proof that I’m not starving you.” 

It wasn’t like Trowa got him the gelato. It took only seconds for Wufei to respond on Quatre’s phone instead of Trowa's. 

“Winner!” his text read. “Do not let your trainer see you eating that. Other than that, enjoy your juvenile junk.” 

He snorted and put his phone back into his pocket. Wufei really was much too attached to his phone. He guessed, given the time difference, that it was an ungodly hour where he was. He did not join them in Europe for filming, being required to go back home for familial duties. Quatre almost wished Wufei had come with them just so he didn’t have to deal with the stricter, unreasonable replacement. 

“Mind if I join you?” Trowa asked but sat down next to him without waiting for a response. He stretched his arms up in the air and breathed in deeply. “I used to live here, you know,” he started as conversation. 

Debating whether he should respond or not took longer than necessary and that left a long stretch of silence between them. Quatre dug his running shoes into the interlocking pavements on the ground as he watched local feet of all sizes traverse the ground. The pause was long enough that Trowa took that as a cue to disappear. 

“I can leave if you want me to.” 

“I was conceived around here.” Offer a piece of personal information in exchange for another. Quatre knew the decorum of conversation well. He just didn’t engage in it lately, especially around the film director. “The address of the villa was Quatre Allee du Bassin in Lanton.” 

“That explains the name,” Trowa said, kicking his heels on the ground like a child. “Although Lanton would sound more like a legitimate name.” 

“Quatre does sound awkward.” He paused, finishing off his gelato before continuing. “Are you French? Because that would mean you’ve been laughing at my name from behind my back this whole time.” 

“Not French and I’ve always liked how your name sounds different.” He left enough of a mystery to make Quatre wonder, just like everyone did, of his origins, but he didn’t press for answers. Somehow, he liked that bit of mystery. The trivial piece of information was something to look forward to. “The circus spent a lot of time here when I was a kid,” he continued. “Almost too long that I got to go to a regular school.” 

That bit about his stint with the circus being true was an interesting discovery. “I’ve never seen you do circus tricks.” 

Trowa presented him with a rare smile, leaning both elbows back on the seat behind him. “I did some for the show, if you remember, but it's good to know that you’re interested,” he said, looking at the long line of people by a crepe stand. “I’m too old and out of shape to walk a tight rope for you. It would have been easier ten years and fifteen pounds ago.” 

Quatre nodded before turning his attention back to the weekend fair. There were stalls of all sorts and various hand-held variety of foods from which children chose. In a corner, he saw a man enjoying a crepe while his daughter held his hand, a bright green macaron stuck precariously between her lips. She looked at him oddly before chomping on the treat and giving him a toothless grin. Somewhere closer to the fountains, a toddler was learning how to walk dangerously close to the water. The parents were there, however, keeping watchful eyes and hands on him. 

“Did you ever consider having a family of your own?” Quatre questioned without thinking, only because he noticed, with a start, a doppelganger of his once fiancée not too far off in the distance. 

“Is that an offer?” 

He was too distracted to respond and simply watched the towheaded child holding her hand. He was tiny, no more than three, walking unsteadily beside her as the father lifted him off the ground by a tiny arm. When he giggled, Quatre had to wonder how easily that family could have been his, how easily that could have been his heir. 

“I expected to have a family of my own by now.” 

It was Trowa's turn to pause, leaving a companionable sort of silence between them. Whatever his thoughts were on the matter, Quatre could only guess. He wanted to ask Trowa why, at their age and his financial stability, did he not already have one of his own, but that wasn't such an offhand topic to casually ask someone. It was too personal. 

“I've had two fiancées and nothing to show for.” He continued to blather as if possessed to open up to his director, of all people. “Why do you think that is?” 

When he turned to address his companion, he realized that Trowa had let out an audible, very exaggerated sigh of relief. It was more puzzling than insulting and for once, Trowa didn't deign it necessary to bring flirtatious continuity to their conversation. He seemed almost nervous as he gripped his left hand with his right, almost covering the whole hand protectively. It was then that he decided to let that conversation fizzle into the depths of forgotten memory. 

“Okay, fine, so you tell me what you’re comfortable enough to talk about.” 

It didn’t even take Trowa a moment to think about what to say next. 

“I’d like to date you.” 

It was Quatre’s turn to transform into a nervous wreck. He hadn’t decided yet if his recent foray into homosexual activity was simply a result of his inability to resist his assertive partner or, unbeknownst to him, his true preference. He’d never said ‘no’. Not really. He’d never instigated anything either. Truth be told, he currently held no interest in pursuing the new experience further though he would admit that the physical aspects had been more than satisfactory. 

In retrospect, everything that happened thus far and his inability to classify it had been a result of his delay tactics. They were delay tactics that his mind played with him, refusing to decide if he were, in fact, attracted to the very male Trowa Barton. Why was it that now, when he was next to the director, in wide view of the open public, that his brain decided it was time to think about his sexuality and time to think about turning Trowa into the father of non-existent children. Perhaps it had been the reminiscence about his previous failed relationships, the longing for a typical family and the proposal from his current not-really partner, if you could call him that, that triggered an urgent need for him to find out where exactly he was on the sexuality spectrum. Could he possibly care for Trowa as a lover the same way he loved the women who had been in his life? 

He could have told Trowa he wasn’t sure, could have said to give him time, but instead, Quatre let the silence reign, leaving his companion with nothing but speculations and maybe a ray of hope. Something told him that this was not the time to respond to Trowa’s declaration because he himself did not know the answers to what they both sought. 

“Ah, this is just about the perfect time for you to clam up. Why am I not surprised?” 

He didn’t sound annoyed, surprisingly, just smug at having predicted the reaction to his statement. 

“I like you, Quatre,” he said next, stretching his long legs out in front of him as if wanting to examine his knees with the way he was staring intently at it. If he couldn’t look at him as a result of timidity, Quatre found it the slightest bit endearing.  “But I can’t go out with you. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” 

He seemed almost melancholy but there was a bit of frustration seeping in to his voice. Quatre left it at that, not knowing what else to say other than the most cliché lines typical of an afternoon weekday soap opera. Trowa had slept with him, boldly pined for him but can’t even go out with him. That was odd.

“I really like you,” he said again as if he hadn’t been heard the first time. Quatre knew that already. How could he not? What was so unbelievable before was now so glaringly obvious. He wouldn’t blame those who suspected them of sleeping with each other. By now, it was an open secret. 

That was the most heart to heart talk they’ve ever had. It was as uncomfortable as it was delicate and he rarely got personal outside of family. 

“At least have breakfast with me.” 

Quatre wanted to point to a now non-existent ice cream cone. He didn’t know how he was going to mime that action when Trowa miraculously got the gist of his thoughts merely from the expression on his face. 

“That wasn’t food.” 

“I won’t fit into a dress tomorrow.” That sounded ridiculous to anyone who might have heard. He couldn’t believe what was coming out of his own mouth. 

“Dresses have these things called sizes,” Trowa explained, standing and almost grabbing his hand before deciding against it. After all, you never know what the people, armed with cell phones and social media, would think of it. “You could also explain to me over breakfast why all the recent news points to you having a feud with Duo Maxwell.” 

If Quatre was oblivious when it came to sexual advances, Trowa was oblivious when it came to his work. He must not have noticed the slightest bit of tension going on in the set the day Duo made his appearance and had demonstrated his acting prowess. He shrugged. That was just the way he was with Duo and vice-versa. It was nothing remotely close to a feud. The gossip columns just found it profitable to blow it out of proportion. 

Trowa’s cell phone went off suddenly with the face of the current topic, Duo Maxwell, appearing on the screen. Trowa excused himself before picking it up, lifting the device next to his ear, holding it with enough distance so that it wasn’t directly against his cheek. Curiosity got the better of Quatre, urging him to lean closer to Trowa to hear at least part of the conversation. 

“Yes. -- I know what I’m doing. -- No. -- Of course. -- Yes, Duo, I read about it. I am aware.” 

They must have been discussing some gossip column. He wondered if it was about the supposed feud. He didn’t think that kind of thing affected Duo. Wasn’t it the usual and wasn’t he used to it being a seasoned person of interest? Duo sounded somewhat distressed from the other end of the line. Quatre thought he heard the words ‘stop it’ and ‘stop messing around’, but those were things you wouldn’t say to Trowa. Those were words reserved for some delinquent who needed a scolding. 

“I got it. -- Yes, I understand,” were Trowa’s departing words before he cut the connection. It sure sounded like an intense discussion. 

“It’s like my mother checking up on me,” Trowa muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He seemed less relaxed now and a bit more tense. He looked around him as if a ghost would suddenly appear next to him. 

“Something he said?” Quatre decided to ask. 

“Yeah.” 

Breakfast turned out to be more than just the two of them. Trowa had decided against a local café, opting instead for the hotel restaurant where most of the crew were already having breakfast. They didn’t even get to share a table because as soon as his trainer saw him, he was grabbed by the arm and forced to sit next to the man. It would have been negligible if the trainer had minded his own business, but that was unlikely from the beginning. He just had to get into Quatre’s food choices, which became very limited and very bland. By the time his food came, he no longer had the desire to put any of it into his mouth. He wanted to sulk, but sulking was what children did. He didn’t see Trowa for the rest of the day. 

To his surprise, Trowa had become more reserved the next day, greeting him plainly like he did the rest of the crew, not even taking the time to talk to him before the workday began like he usually did. If it was because of his talk with Duo, it didn’t matter. What mattered to Quatre was that he had backed off a bit or at least backed off enough for him to figure out his own opinions on their arrangement. They were not exactly seeing each other and Quatre was not sure if he even liked that concept, seeing another man. It was foreign to him. 

“You have a fight?” 

“What? With who?” 

“You know.” 

“Know what?” 

Quatre did not understand where all this was coming from. They were referring to Trowa from what he could gather, but he decided to play dumb anyway. Extricating himself from the rumor seemed like the quickest, safest solution. 

“And it was going so well…” 

Choosing to ignore the comment did well to get his current inquisitor to leave him alone. It was hard to dodge the topic while imagining squeezing into a tiny dress that promised an uncomfortable day. He didn’t know how he would squeeze his feet into the sky high heels next. They always pinched his toes at just the edges and sliced the back of his heel like ancient torture devices. At least he learned how to walk properly in them. That was a challenge he proudly conquered. 

“Jesus, I don’t know why they never thought to put you in lady’s clothes sooner,” his make-up artist cooed while applying liquid eyeliner to the edges of his eyes. After the first few times, he’d become a pro at not tearing up at the pencils and brushes poking into what felt like his corneas. 

“He’s an absolute doll,” was the comment of the next person who walked into his trailer. They just never stopped coming. “Aren’t you, Quatre?” 

He didn’t blink, couldn’t blink at the goings on near his eye socket lest the brush miss its mark and he had to start all over again. After so many years, he got used to people commenting on his less than manly appearance that he was able to keep a straight face. 

“Come give me a kiss.” 

Just like that, his make-up was ruined as his co-star turned his lap into a chair and gifted him with a deep kiss, a kiss that smudged his lipstick and made him forget that he ever slept with another man. 

His make-up artist was understandably fuming, but kept his comments to himself, simply rolling his eyes up and raising his hands up in the air in defeat while his co-star’s back was turned to him. Trowa also happened to poke his head in there at that moment and that became a whole other mess since Trowa was a jealous man. He learned that over trial and error throughout the span of filming. The director being cranky was never good for anyone. He was professional on set but became deathly silent during breaks. 

All this seemed to have gotten its source from Duo’s call. Therefore, Quatre decided that this was Duo’s fault. And how did Quatre deal with stress? He usually turned to drugs, but that drug-fuelled threesome the other week was irresponsible and regrettable. His acting clueless and his complete lack of judgment post-heroin hit was what lead to him sleeping with Trowa right after sleeping with 2 girls. Not that it had been bad. It had been under the lack of clarity he would have had had he been more sober. Option two was all he had left and option two was currently staying with the most annoying person he had ever met. 

He extricated himself from the situation, quickly exiting through the fire exit and letting himself commune with the coolness of the outside air. He made his call quickly. 

“Let’s see Noam,” Quatre said the second Heero picked up his phone. 

There was a gruff response of ‘fine’ before the connection was cut and a text message came in. Quatre almost cried as he stared at the face of his adorable golden pup. His coat looked so shiny and so soft. His grinning, tongue out, glorious smile was almost glowing. Quatre loved that dog so much he’d rather be single for the rest of his life than deal with another person. Quatre dialed again. 

“How many pictures do you want?” Heero said without waiting for a greeting. He seemed irritated, but then, he always seemed irritated. 

“Video.” 

“Fine.” 

Quatre instantly missed home the moment he saw the jumping, gleeful greeting of his long-time only friend. He looked excited, the way no other human could look excited at seeing their best friend. Thank goodness he could recognize him under all that smudged make-up. Quatre cooed promises of coming home soon and going out with him for long walks on the beaches that he loved. Heero held up the phone admirably well with the steady, sturdy steel of someone who could lift heavy weights off the ground as if it were nothing. It lasted long enough for him to relieve his anxiety and short enough to hold Heero’s patience. 

“He comes on set.” 

“They let you take him with you to the studio?” 

Quatre was almost fuming that he didn’t get that same privilege when he realized the quarantine laws involved with bringing his pet with him abroad. 

“Yeah, well good dog and all that,” Heero complimented to which Noam sounded his approval. Quatre hoped he didn’t get too attached to his temporary companion. He guessed he had a jealous streak in him too. 

“I’ll be back soon.” 

Heero scratched Noam’s chin and ran his hands through the fur above his head. That much Quatre could see from the screen. 

“Sure. Oh, and watch your back,” Heero said before giving him a mock salute and cutting the video connection. That sounded more ominous than what was probably intended, but Quatre couldn’t help but get paranoid from a combination of his momentary relapse, the crew knowing much more than they should and the director going hot and cold on him. At least it was better than being unemployed


	12. Act Twelve

The crew had just wrapped-up filming the European leg of the shoot in the city yesterday when their flight was cancelled due to suspicious activities at their final destination. There were no more available flights out of Brussels until another few days. Half the crew was excited to spend a few more days in the city. The other half was worried sick about their families back home. Trowa was more than mildly distressed about who knew what and Quatre knew he had the power to make everyone’s worries all go away. 

It might have been a bad idea, he knew the moment he stepped into the office building with Trowa, who refused to leave him alone as part of the hot and cold game he seemed to be playing with him. The receptionist at the bottom floor had been polite and accommodating as he requested to see the person at the top floor. It didn’t take long for them to acquiesce with his request, chaperoning him in the elevator and the upscale office at the end of the building facing the best views of the city below. He was perturbed but didn’t let it show with Trowa at his side probably wondering how they’d gotten through so easily with no appointments necessary. 

When they entered the office, they were requested to be seated as they would be joined shortly by Mr. Dietrich. It didn’t even take one minute. The door opened even before the secretary had left, revealing Mr. Dietrich who looked as if he ran there to meet them. Quatre knew Trowa was wondering why the most important man in the building, dressed appropriately in a power suit, had been harried to greet them or why no one in the entire building wanted to inconvenience them. 

Quatre stood, ready to greet the head of the Brussels operations, when he was attacked by fingers on his cheeks, pinching them with excessive force. He attempted to swat the hand away when he was instead pulled into a tight hug. 

“Uncle Quatre,” he was greeted. “It’s been a long time. You’re still just as adorable as always.” 

Trowa stood, waiting to the side, probably wondering what was going on. 

“This is Trowa Barton,” Quatre introduced. “Trowa, this is my nephew from my eldest sister, Adrian Dietrich.” 

“Adrian _Winner_ -Dietrich,” he corrected. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said next with a handshake. “I liked all your movies, including your earliest ones.”

Trowa accepted the compliment with an unusual scratch of his head. He put a hand in his pocket, looking uneasy, but engaged in friendly talk anyway. 

“I didn’t know Quatre had nephews his age.” 

“He’s a few hours older,” Adrian explained, asking them to take a seat. Quatre didn’t. He didn’t want to be there for too long. “What brings you to my office?” 

“I need a plane,” Quatre said quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking anywhere but at the person he was requesting the favor from. 

“Where are yours?” 

“Parked in Burbank, Salzburg, etcetera,” Quatre murmured, not wanting Trowa to hear any of what they’d been talking about. He saw Trowa’s brows rise in question and he really didn’t want to explain how or why he owned planes or how many the family had. 

“I see you still like flying commercial,” Adrian commented. The family always wondered why he preferred to go with the flow of the remaining ninety-nine percent, refusing to act and spend like a wealthy man would. For all their teasing, they never forced him or dissuaded him from what he did. For that, at least, he was thankful. 

“We’ll need a commercial plane,” he clarified, attempting to shrink his entire body away from Trowa. He should have left him behind when he had the chance. “…for the entire filming crew and their equipment.” 

“Done. You know this is going to cost you, right?” 

Quatre pulled his nephew aside, leaving Trowa to sit on the couch when the secretary came back in to serve drinks. When Trowa attempted to follow, he signaled with his hand for him to stay where he was, leading his nephew closer to the expansive windows, as far away from Trowa as possible. He tried his best to speak in hushed tones. 

“We can pay.” 

“You can buy all the planes in the airport as we speak, Uncle Quat. That’s not what I was talking about.” 

Watching the city below was mesmerizing and Quatre allowed himself to do just that as he considered all the possibilities of what exactly his nephew would want from him. He skirted the subject anyway, bringing back up the most pressing matter at hand. 

“You’re going to have to charge the production company. My friends won’t accept the free ride.” 

“You mean you’re not footing the bill? And you know I’m not charging money, right?” 

“I play by the rules of the rest of the world.” 

He got paid the amount they agreed on as per contract. The production covered the expenses. He could have just as easily paid for the entire production, but just like with the insurance issue, he refused to use money to his advantage. Though his family understood that, they always worried about his insistence to make it, as they preferred to call it, ‘harder on himself’. 

“Then that’s not going to be cheap for them at all. I mean, this is a private, commercial sized jet we’re talking about.” 

“Charge them somewhere between the border of reasonable and dirt cheap.” 

“Those borders don’t even meet,” his nephew answered blandly, leaning back on the large glass windows and crossing his arms. Quatre was facing the window, but he knew his face was being studied. The Winners were analytical that way. “Fine. I can claim that the plane is older, the fuel was cheaply purchased and the flight crew is made up of a bunch of new hires in training.” 

“You could give a discount on the pilot too. We won’t need it.” 

Adrian snorted. “You can still fly a plane?” 

“Who taught you how to fly one?” 

“Fair enough. How will your friend over there take it when he sees you at the controls?” 

He was bringing up his substance abuse issues, Quatre knew, though he did not explicitly say it. They were the same age but Adrian was more driven and therefore more successful. Heading the Brussels operation was an important job, one of many he could have been holding had he continued working at the company. He did not regret it, however, since he knew his sisters, nephews and nieces were more than capable at the job. 

“I’m competent enough not to kill an entire plane full of people, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Uncle Quat, you’ve got to stop being self-deprecating. It’s just too depressing.” He motioned with his eyes to Trowa still seated and sipping on his drink. “What I’m worried about is your friend over there. He keeps on staring this way then looking away when I look back. He could’ve borne holes in your back by now if his eyes were lasers.” 

“He's worried about getting home right away along with the rest of the crew.” 

“My _sweet_ Uncle Quatre,” Adrian said, suddenly clamping a hand down on his shoulder and whispering into his ear. “You just can’t understand the gravity of his eyes on you. Just make sure he doesn’t put you in any compromising positions. You do know he used to shoot porn, don’t you?” 

Quatre felt his ears heat up before he could stop it and for the first time feel Trowa’s eyes on him. He didn’t know that and the revelation at that moment didn’t help either. Adrian wasn’t easing the situation or the interpretation of their exchange with his whispering too close to his ear. He heard rather than saw Trowa rise from his seat, ready to approach them. 

“Take a seat, Mr. Barton,” his nephew said with a courteous tone of voice, the same tone he probably used at board meetings. No doubt Trowa would sit back down. “We were just discussing what he’s willing to do for a discount.” 

“That sounded like innuendo.” Quatre almost hissed. “Don’t give him any ideas. I’m your _uncle_ , for god’s sake.” 

“But we used to bathe naked together,” Adrian said louder than necessary. 

That was the last straw. Quatre pulled his nephew away from the windows, pulled open the first door he could find and shoved him in there before joining him. 

“This is not very discreet either,” Adrian commented. “Relax, Uncle Quat. I was simply inflating your value. We have a deal on the plane. I just need you to do me one favor.” 

“And that is?”

“I need you to go to the headquarters in Berlin. You fly there in the afternoon and then head back here in a couple of hours to fly the plane back to LA. I’ll have it ready and fueled with the crew in the airport. Your friends can meet you there.” 

“Berlin is your sister’s jurisdiction.” 

“Exactly.” 

Quatre ran a hand through his hair, noticing for the first time that he’d hid them both in the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked better than he did before Wufei’s intervention, but still did not look ready enough to pass through another one of the Winner Company offices. Though he was no longer working at the company or showed up at necessary shareholder meetings, it was still difficult. He still held that much influence being a majority shareholder. It was a power play, the reason why he didn’t want to show up at the building and ask for his nephew’s help in the first place. 

“You don’t need to say anything, Uncle Quat. You don’t even have to talk to her. Just show up - like you did here.” 

“It wasn’t my intention to exert my influence here.” 

“But you did, just by showing up. Did you see the executives quaking in their boots as you passed by? And you brought your love-struck friend which is equivalent to an announcement that you will have no heirs.” 

Quatre stiffened. It was a miscalculation on his part. He really should have left Trowa behind. He thought up plans in his head of ways to offset the consequences of the unwanted projection of his sexuality – whatever that sexuality was. He hadn’t even figured it out himself yet. 

“This is plain manipulation. I’m not being roped into this.” 

“Aren’t you willing to make sacrifices for your Hollywood friends?” 

“Fine,” Quatre said after another few moments of contemplation. It was too late to take back what he’d done just now. He could at least control the situation the next time he showed up at a Winner holding – in a few hours in Berlin. “Whether it would fall into your plans or not, I’m not taking Trowa with me.” 

“Good,” Adrian said with a grin, making it obvious that he would use that bit of discrepancy to his advantage. He adjusted the cufflinks on his sleeves before turning the doorknob. “And make sure you wear a suit.” 

“Congratulations on successfully manipulating your uncle,” Quatre said with a release of breath he didn’t know he held, following him out the door. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving if you’re flying the family over to New York.” 

“Will do, Uncle Quat. The kids can’t wait to see their super cute grand uncle.” 

Trowa looked worried when they exited and tad bit possessive as he quickly took position right next to him. Quatre could do nothing but sigh as he was given a sly wink by his nephew who led them out of his office, even accompanying them to the elevator, the bottom floor and the revolving doors out of the building. He noted the eyes on them and the not so subtle attempts by a few to approach him and not for the first time, allowed himself to be part of his cunning nephew’s power play. 

“Good luck with the film, Mr. Barton.” Adrian delivered his parting words with a very diplomatic and professional smile. “Uncle Quat’s going to have to leave you for a bit, but he’ll join you at the airport tonight. Please make sure he doesn’t wreck my plane.”

Trowa didn’t have to ask before Quatre explained with a rub of his already tired eyes.

“Don’t worry about it. I just have to be a slave to the company for a few hours. I’ll meet you at the airport tonight.” 

Quatre didn’t know if it was the fact that he got them a flight back earlier than expected, his nephew’s infuriating repartee, the three piece suit he wore when he met them at the airport or the fact that he piloted the plane home that garnered him a too enthusiastic thanks. All he knew was that Trowa was on him as soon as they landed, in the public bathroom even, where witnesses were very possible. The media had photographed them while exiting customs at the airport and he was sure they were not far behind.

It took a lot of reasoning to get Trowa to calm down and multitudes of people watching to stop him from trying anything until they drove back to Quatre’s condo. Whatever Trowa’s urgency was to get back home seemed no longer important as he refused to be driven back to Malibu. Quatre had no choice but to take him back with him to his condo, passing by a neighbor in the process to pick up Noam, who’d been dropped off there by Heero in the morning. 

His shower was a little too quick as well with Trowa yanking him out mid-wash, quickly rubbing him down with a towel as if not doing so quickly enough would cause a fire. Trowa was pretty wet too from a recent shower, either forgetting or foregoing applying the towel to himself. All he had on his bare self was a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms. Quatre wanted to use jet lag as an excuse and he was too tired after the preceding trip to Berlin, but he was rendered powerless after being shoved to the bed face down. His towel was gone by then, his groans and Trowa’s sloppy licks the only thing audible in the room. He was losing the willpower to say anything to stop him from performing such an embarrassing act. 

“We’re being watched,” he said mid-inhale, waving an awkwardly positioned arm somewhere to his right where Noam was lounging on his side, watching their activities intently. He would have blushed if he could, but his blood was already rushing to different parts of his body. He presumed his skin was pink all over as he tried to get away, only to be pulled back with a firm hand. 

“He can watch.” 

“You can leave.” 

His breaths were quick and it was taking all of his lung capacity to say anything. Trowa mercifully left him then, leading Noam gently out of the room before locking the door behind him. 

“Better?” 

Quatre nodded, sitting up and unconsciously pulling a blanket to his bare self to protect whatever was left of his modesty. 

“We’re not done here yet.”

Quatre nodded again. He didn’t think he wanted it to be over with yet, but what Trowa had been doing was mildly humiliating.

“We can do other things,” he suggested, but Trowa shook his head to that. 

“I want all of you.”

Quarte licked his lips. It was so cheesy, probably out of a cheap porn flick, but the effect was no different from the clichéd endings he’d seen in movies often enough. He slipped into the sheets, embarrassed now by his obvious reluctance. 

“Okay,” he said, turning so that he was lying on his stomach, hiding inside the covers, with his face on the pillow and his shaking hands underneath it, clutching it like a lifeline. Trowa was cursing this time, singing him multitudes of praises of the X-rated variety. It took too long and with each passing second, his shame grew tenfold. 

He didn’t think his embarrassment could have gotten any worse when Trowa yanked the sheet off him. He felt a cold gust of wind and shivered. Trowa took his sweet time observing him as Quatre felt the dips caused by his movements on the mattress. The movement was later followed by kisses peppered around his scapula, the back of his neck and the dips of his back and spine in no certain pattern. He felt himself relax momentarily, allowing his skin to absorb the sensation of the gentleness that touched it. He didn’t mind it either when Trowa’s fingers traced firm patterns on the curvature of his back, slowly pushing pliant skin in its wake. It was only when Trowa made it far enough down his lower back that he began to worry. 

“Shh,” Trowa said with his voice low and quiet enough that it was a whisper. The whispers sounded heady and seductive moving from the side of his ear to the back of his neck. All the reassurances continued when he boldly started to rub first then form a cupped hand over the arc of his buttocks. He yelped, surprising even himself, when the flesh was suddenly slapped. 

“Sorry. I’ve always wanted to try that,” said the guilty party, chuckling with his deepening voice before moving to kiss it. “I promise I’ll be more considerate next time.” 

Quatre decided he wasn’t considerate at all after the heavy petting turned into some fingers being shoved unerringly into his mouth with insistence. Trowa had caught him off guard mid-moan, causing Quatre to suddenly curse internally. It wasn’t the sexiest thing to be suddenly choked with fingers. But, he was as patient as they claimed, forgetting the offense and instead sucking on those digits. The saltiness and the friction mingled interestingly in his tongue. He wondered it that was what it was like to have another man’s privates in your mouth. 

Probably watching him in his earnest work, Trowa suddenly cursed, letting out another few choice words of praise, expanding his filthy vocabulary with every breath. That was, unexpectedly, quite a bit of a turn-on. 

“You always fucking do this to me,” Trowa said, becoming more tense, demonstrating how much he wanted him by rubbing his need between his cheeks. He couldn’t deny that he felt some sort of anxiety at the action. He shifted slightly, noticing his own need brush up against the sheets beneath him. 

Before long, Trowa’s mouth was once again between his buttocks, licking and testing how far he’d go before Quatre would call a stop to it. He didn’t and instead concentrated on transporting all the sounds from his throat to the pillow he was smothering his face on. It was wreaking all sorts of havoc and confusion in his body but he let it. Whatever thoughts of conserving his modesty was all but gone anyway as soon as Trowa retrieved the fingers from his mouth and slowly stuck it in him with the aid of a generous helping of lubrication.  

He wasn’t sure if it was a ‘hah’ or a ‘gah’ or a definite unmanly sort of whimper that escaped his lips. The untested, invaded territory felt uncomfortable verging on remarkable, causing a strange sort of gratifying humiliation. He would never have expected this of himself, not even in his most vivid fantasies. 

Trowa was without warning as often he’d been when it came to their most intimate and not necessarily emotion-laden encounters. Within seconds, he’d unwrapped and secured a condom on himself before burying himself with a satisfied groan. That was the moment Quatre near screamed and realized that he would have no heirs. It was oddly liberating. 

He didn’t think he could have kept as silent as he struggled with everything going on in his brain and, more importantly, his lower half. Trowa made sure to keep him where he was, rubbing his back by following the curvature of his spine. He moved eventually, testing all his limits as the pace increased and the intensity of their movements became more erratic. He didn’t know if he’d raised his own hips or if Trowa had pulled him up with the same hands that were secured in an almost death grip on aforementioned. All he knew was that he was matching his partner’s movements while he stroked himself with one hand and hung on to dear life with the other. His buried face in the pillow really was the only thing keeping the volume down. He was almost at the pinnacle of completion when the doorbell suddenly rang. Trowa cursed before he could.

“Gotta get that,” he said between quickened breaths. “Heero has a key. He might--” 

Trowa pulled out abruptly, grabbing the discarded towel from the floor and securing it around his waist. He yanked the bedroom door open, grumpily making his way to the front door. Quatre bit his lip. He wasn’t the only one frustrated at that point. 

He flipped over to his back, wondering how Heero would react to the sight of a barely dressed Trowa getting the door. He would probably hightail it out of there within seconds, so he was worried when the seconds he was expecting turned into one minute and then two and then five. Something was not right, so he dressed himself in the first shirt and pair of pants he could find. 

Padding his way to the living room on the way to the front door, he had to pause, hearing an unfamiliar voice. He saw Trowa’s back and the open door but no one coming in. 

“There he is,” the foreign voice said. “I thought you were going to bring Trowa home as soon as you landed.” 

He looked from the man to Trowa then back. It was obvious that he was at a loss. 

“I thought Trowa was pretty loud, but you can compete with the best of them, Quatre Winner.” 

He dipped his head immediately, wishing he had worn a hooded sweater so he could hide in the fabric. The conversation continued on without him. 

“Look, I’ll be home as soon as I finish--”

“Fucking him?” 

“ _Getting dressed_.” 

To Quatre, that sounded like a couple’s quarrel. He almost asked who exactly the other person was when he was so helpfully assisted. 

“Oh, don’t tell me he doesn’t know.” 

“Look, Raph, you don’t have to--” 

Trowa was cut off immediately before a hand was offered in front of Quatre’s face. He accepted the handshake easily, looking up when the other hand wouldn’t let go of his. 

“Raphael. He’s my partner,” Trowa said as sort of an introduction. He was looking away from them both. 

“ _Life_ partner,” the man amended, now almost crushing his hand. “The same life partner who agreed to have him go through with his little experiment with the understanding that you’d take him home after the film was over with and the experiment was done. Believe me, people will hear about this.” 

When his hand was freed, Quatre placed it inside his pockets, feeling mortified and self-conscious all at once. So _that_ was what Duo meant by ‘messing around’ and what Trowa was so worried about when their flight was cancelled. Noam, who seemed to have noticed his distress, suddenly made an appearance next to him. He made a whining sound, rubbing his head against his leg as if in encouragement. 

“Sorry.” It was all he could offer short of admitting he was a… mistress? Perhaps paramour was more the term he was looking for. Regardless, it became very evident that he was at least one half of the party at fault though he had no idea about the existence of a lover of higher authority or an experiment he was unknowingly a part of.  

“Let’s just go.”

Quatre looked down at his feet. His toes were curled inwards in the same kind of shame he couldn’t quite express. Not before long, they were gone and he was left to brood by sinking to the floor with only his sweet, sympathetic golden retriever at his side.


	13. Act Thirteen

It was now or never. He had to come clean before they outed him to his parents and, possibly, the entirety of the web. He didn’t know, not until now, not until he was cornered against a wall with nowhere to go. Ideally, he would have wanted to reveal this new discovery to his own family in his own terms and in his own time, but there was no time for that. There was no strategizing now, not with his father, his friends or even the company shareholders. He was surrounded by conservatives, he realized, and the dread that plagued him at the slightest thought of the possibility years ago was now coming back to him in full force. 

Trowa hadn’t told him he was married because maybe he should have known. Their lives were not exactly private and his pictures with the man he called his life partner were presumably plastered all over the net. It was stupidity on his part, just straight up stupidity. In spite of that, the question of Trowa’s motivation was not the most urgent matter he had to deal with. His mother was currently in front of him, staring at him with the same shade of eyes he stared back at her with. She was worried. It was easy to tell. Perhaps she could just as easily read the anxiety off him. 

“Quatre,” she started and that worried him. She called him all different sorts of endearments ranging from ‘darling’ to ‘honey’. Her demeanor was just as serious as his. 

“Mom,” he said in reply and that was it. Nothing would come out of his mouth. He didn’t know where to start. Should he have started with the possibly criminal details of how he might have discovered or the sordid new details of how he had definitely confirmed? It was difficult when his heartbeats were thumping loudly against his chest causing a deafening sound in his ears. 

“Sweetheart.” She lightened up and Quatre thought that was the opportunity to break in. “You can tell mama anything, you know that, right?” 

It was reassuring. He thanked the heavens that they were past the middle ages and being who he was no longer entailed illegality and no longer required being hanged by the neck -- though there was still the possibility of getting beat up for it. 

“Remember Marco Gomez of the New York office?” he questioned, wringing his hands together with unease. 

“The suicide.” 

He inhaled deeply. He would always remember it and every now and then, it would haunt not only his dreams but also his conscience. 

“Yes, the suicide.” Quatre licked his lips. “He kissed me then threatened he would tell everyone that I liked it if I told anyone about the discrepancy I found in one of the accounts he was handling.” 

His mother remained silent and he was glad for that. He didn’t think he could have handled interruptions until he said it. 

“I felt trapped. I didn’t know what to do, so I quit. I guess he wasn’t expecting that and I guess I didn’t realize how he felt about me. If you remember, a couple of days after I quit, he threw himself from the building - from my former office. I didn’t tell anyone, not even the cops, since I was scared of the repercussions to the company and to the family, but he sent me a text before he jumped. He said he loved me.” 

He threw his cell away in a panic after the incident and never replaced it. Only Wufei’s production expense and their need to keep in touch with him kept him from throwing away his current possession. 

His mother picked up his nervous hands and encouraged him further by giving it a light squeeze. It was a mistake not reporting the discrepancies, even a bigger mistake that he didn’t approach the man first with a compromise. In the end, Marco admitted the inconsistency in the accounts with a full report on his desk the day he took his own life. 

“I didn’t know what to think of that. I wasn’t stupid enough not to have any ideas, but just recently with Trowa Barton… I… I think I’ve figured it out. Mom… I’m gay, mom.” 

His mother was the most benevolent being in the world and if there was anyone who was going to find out first, it might as well have been her. He didn’t know how she would feel about it, but he was ready because he loved her and trusted her and hoped for her approval. She paused for a long moment before revealing her thoughts on it. 

“I know, baby,” she said with a tender smile. 

“What?” 

He was a nervous wreck by now, not figuring out if he was hearing right. If his mother knew when he didn’t after all those years then what did it say about him? 

“I’m your mother. You think I wouldn’t be able to tell?” 

“But dad--” 

“Oh, _he_ knows even though he hasn’t said anything to me. Why do you think he’s been swatting the board off your back about the whole 'marriage and kids' agenda?” 

“But how?” 

“Quatre, before you were born, we raised four girls. We hadn’t had a boy until then so we had no idea how to raise you, but then Adrian was born a couple of hours after you and all of a sudden we were raising two boys - one of them our son and the other our grandson. You two were as different as you are now and along the way, we figured out _how_ different.”

“You wanted a son.” 

“We had four girls. Of course we wanted a son but not to continue the family line. At that age, it was a personal decision between your father and me.” 

“You almost died.”

“Quatre!” she responded with mild alarm. “I didn’t and that wouldn’t have been your fault. I was old when we conceived you. Those are the consequences of having children at that age and we don’t regret it. We had more experience and free time by the time we had you and we’re satisfied with the way we raised you.” 

“Is that okay with you - that I’m gay?” he asked experimentally. 

“You’re our son. Your father and I would defend you to the death.” 

“Then all your backing with the company--” 

“Our backing, giving you majority shareholder rights to the company is a matter of showing you our support.” 

“But I wouldn’t have any heirs.” 

“Heirs? Honey, haven’t you noticed all your nephews and nieces have hyphenated surnames? Your sisters probably knew too. This is the twenty-first century. There are more options now and we’re not limited to boys carrying the family name into the next century. It’s not a crime to be gay.” 

Flabbergasted - that was the first word that came to mind. Everyone knew before _he_ did and it was okay. He wasn’t doing anything wrong by being unable to continue the family line. Breaking millennia of tradition seemed like the greatest sin. Angering the conservative shareholders was always a possibility. Bringing down the company just because he wasn’t straight and couldn’t have kids was his greatest fear and that fear was slowly dissolving with the assurance that his family would back him. He just didn’t know if that counted as all of them or if he would have to battle it out with a few. They were a big family and the family company was never that easy to handle. 

“Should I be expecting opposition from somewhere? From the in-laws?” 

“Why would you think that?” 

“Well, some of them didn’t want me seeing the younger boys.” 

“Because of the drugs, Quatre.” 

“But when we were discussing the subject of inheritance…” 

Having a lot of money wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It was a matter of juggling the happiness and contentment of everyone involved. Nobody would want to be slighted or deceived into a smaller share of the enormous pie. 

“They assumed you would have no children of your own and that since you grew up with Adrian, you’d favor him and his descendants over your other sisters’ kids when you were to distribute their inheritances in your own time. Money has that kind of effect on people, Quatre. You’ve lived in this family long enough. You should know that.” 

In reality, a part of the dilemma with his sexuality was more than just about his own mental state, but partly about the money. He imagined what it would be like to struggle paying bills every month and dismissed his woes altogether. He was luckier than most people and the least he could be was thankful to his parents for that. 

“Honey, you know I don’t like talking about money. We should talk about something more important,” his mother said as leeway into her next intended topic. “How do you feel about this Trowa Barton?” 

The focus changed suddenly and Quatre felt unease at the remembrance of his last encounter with Trowa. What started out as transformative turned out sour in the end. 

“I’m not sure. There are speculations in the media about the two of us while we were shooting the film. We’ve almost wrapped up, so I hope it’ll stop. But, he had a partner. I didn’t know, mom, and his partner is not happy.” 

If the partner was vindictive enough then he’d take it to the gossip shows or, more directly, to social media. Quatre didn’t have any accounts and he never checked. It was what kept him sane. Back in the day, it didn’t even exist. Back in the day, it was all just speculation. 

“Is he angry because you and Trowa…?” 

He was not about to talk to his mother about his sex life, but with the way she let it hang, it was clear to her that they had been sleeping with each other. This was one of the most difficult subjects to breach. It ranked right up there with the revelation of his sexuality. 

Quatre shook his head - a vague response he hoped would deter her from questioning him further. Whether she interpreted that as a denial of the act or a rejection of the embarrassing topic, he did not care to confirm. 

“You hit it off in the show when you were young too.” 

Quatre had forgotten that his mother was an avid fan of the show, always being on set, recording the episodes on now ancient VHS tapes and distributing them to her friends. When they were released in VHS then later on DVD, his father had purchased multiple copies of which he distributed to everyone he knew. Back then, it was his crowning glory. 

“ _I_ wasn’t aware of that.” 

“It was fairly obvious toward the end of the series,” his mother replied with a knowing smile. She put a hand to her rouge tinted lips. “I was half-expecting you to tell me then.” 

“Mom! You’re worse than the fans.” 

He admitted that he was aware of the made-up stories. It was humiliating for him being advertised as the most effeminate of the group. Most of them portrayed him as the rich boy with fifty mansion hide-outs and a perpetual crush on Trowa. When he wasn’t the gayest one, he was the exact opposite. Sometimes it was overkill and to a boy going through puberty, it was an emotional and psychological nightmare. He knew they were referring to his character but they might as well have been referring to him. It made him overcompensate. It made him try not to be so gay. 

“If it looked like there was anything going on between us, I didn’t do it on purpose,” he admitted, playing with his fingers instead of looking at his mother. He was fifteen then and had no idea what was going on. “I was just being me. It still annoys me sometimes - that interpretation. But now I think it was unconscious and I am so confused. I’m not sure if this thing with Trowa is actually the real thing or the result of me giving in to the expectation of us being together. Regardless, I’m going to have to come out.” 

“Who says you have to?” 

His mother surprised him sometimes. He blinked at her in surprise. He never even considered that possibility. All he pictured was a public shaming via magazines displayed at grocery and drugstore check-outs. All he could think about was the entertainment shows and social media outlets. 

“Your private life is your own business. I don’t see your sisters being pressured to come out as being straight.” 

“But the media…” 

“Just let the news happen, honey. We’ll deal with it when it comes. If you’re worried about the company, your dad’s been doing damage control since he retired. He can carry on until the end of time.” 

“I love you two so much,” Quatre said with a loud, released breath. Relief was something he was hoping for ever since he found out about himself. Now that the family end of the business was done, it was time to deal with the media. 

Duo was not happy when he showed up unannounced in his front door past dinner with a golden retriever in hand. First off, Duo was allergic to dog fur and secondly, he hated surprise guests. Quatre sympathized with the latter but thought of it as payback for shoving the media in his face when he least wanted it. 

“Kids, come and greet Quatre Winner,” he said with very little enthusiasm and a whole lot of annoyance. He purposely dodged Noam as the creature tried to deliver a very wet greeting of his own. 

“Thanks for seeing me, Duo,” Quatre said despite not having a pre-arranged agreement to meet. “Sorry about the dog. I couldn’t leave him with the neighbor today.” 

“Dogs have the capacity to survive in a house all alone.” 

Duo grunted. Whatever gorgeous face of munificence he always presented to the public had vanished without a trace. When his offspring did not appear to his calling, he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and texted. All manner of threats must have been sent the children’s way when they appeared not five minutes later with fake smiles plastered on their faces. 

“Nice to meet you, Quatre Winner. You really do look younger than the rest of them. You’re cuter than my old man.” 

That was probably something Duo did not appreciate as he called on his maid to prepare them something to drink. Relena was nowhere to be found, probably still filming in overseas for her latest film. 

Quatre thought the teenager and two younger kids enjoyed the dog much more than they did him. That was just as well for kids who probably wanted a pet but never got one due to the allergies. Noam yipped and jumped in delight as they played around with him. The dog hadn’t been around younger and more energetic people in a while. His neighbor was pretty old and Heero was as lame as they came. 

“Come with me outside,” Duo said, leaving the kids to the dog and escaping into the outside air sans dog. He sneezed more than once, sending Quatre a nice long glare while rubbing his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill later. …And you better be paying from your own damn earnings and not the Winner money.” 

Quatre nodded before sitting with Duo in one of the chaise lounges by the pool. It was large and pristine with clear water flowing out of a marble carved lion’s mouth illuminated by a spotlight. It wasn’t his taste, but it wasn’t his, so Quatre let the statue be. 

“I need your help.” 

“Oh, _please_ , Winner. _You’re_ the one they come to for help, not me.” 

“They’re probably going to ask you about me, if I’m gay.” 

He didn’t mind it if Duo said what he honestly thought, but he would rather save his father the headache of damage control before he could come up with a better solution. Duo would be his best ally in this, being the face of popularity. People still loved him and whatever he said would sway their opinions. 

“So _are_ you? What caused this mind-blowing discovery, finally, way, way past the pubescent stage - sex with another man?” 

He didn’t have to answer that because Duo made conclusions of his own. 

“Holy shit you were sleeping with Trowa. I knew it!” 

Quatre did not have to say anything else. Duo went off on a tangent, building a whole imagined scenario of an illicit affair. He spoke of a Nostradamus-like prophecy that came true and reiterated that it wasn’t only him that thought it but the rest of the entire world. This went on for a long time until he was finally out of breath and the maid came and went and came back again to deliver hard liquor. She probably knew he needed it. 

“Are you done?” he questioned after what felt like an eternity. He didn’t drink the alcohol but pushed it on Duo. He looked like he needed it more. 

“No. I’ve got more.” Duo sipped on his Scotch, enough time for Quatre to break his monologue before he continued on again. 

“I didn’t know he was married. …No ring or anything.” 

“You didn’t know you were a mistress?” 

“Paramour. I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that term.” 

“Who even uses that word? Anyway, you aren’t completely to blame. Him and Raph have been going through a rough patch and decided to do a trial separation. Raph moved to their place in the Caribbean for a bit with the understanding that when the movie Tro was filming was over, he’d move back in to their house to try to work it out. Trowa asked permission from Raph to go after you.” 

So, he had been part of the spectacle even before he knew it. It was not a very nice eye-opener and he wished that Trowa had told him in the first place. Not that he would have agreed to it if he knew beforehand. He came from an old-fashioned family and this was not the sort of thing he would ever consent to. 

“Who _is_ this Raph?” Quatre questioned, curious to find out what he would be up against. Surely the competition was not for Trowa, but for who would win over the press. 

“His agent. They’ve been together for ten or eleven years.” 

Quatre rolled his eyes to the heavens. 

“I know!” Duo said before he was off again to another tirade. It was a good thing that even though Trowa lived next door, they were miles apart due to the size of their properties. Duo was loud enough to announce the situation to the entire household. 

“Look, Duo,” he said when the chatterbox finally stopped to catch his breath once again. “I’m not asking for any favors, but you know what kind of person I am – though you don’t like me very much.” He muttered the last bit. “And you know my situation with the company.” 

“Dear lord, Quat, you could easily pay people to shut up or pay the media or pay a publicist. It’s your choice, really.” 

“That’s not how I do things.” 

“I heard you quit.” 

“I am still a majority shareholder.” 

“Then you could bend them to your will.” 

“Duo!” he said with exasperation. Maybe he needed that drink after all, but he really didn’t want to add alcohol to his list of addictions. “Whatever you say to the press will determine the course of how this news will be taken, either in a positive or negative light. I am not going to tell you what to say. I am just hoping that you won’t make it harder for me.” 

“I’m a lot less saintly than people think and I am not a liar.” 

“I trust you.” 

He looked at Duo with the full force of his mother’s eyes. The Winner charm never worked on Duo as he had a more powerful charm of his own, but maybe this would. 

“Fine,” Duo said, picking up his glass of Scotch and drinking it in one go. “You’re the least likely to be an asshole from the bunch of us anyway. I’ve got your back on this.”


	14. Act Fourteen

Duo offered the services of his publicist which Quatre declined. He instead hired a lawyer and with the suggestion of his mother, refused to answer any questions that had to do with his private life. No one could get anything out of him. Armed with professionals and with Duo’s backing, he was able to keep the mystery going without the blemish of any wrongdoing that came with the rumors. Duo vouched for his good character and encouraged people to leave him be, appealing to their sense of morality short of admitting that there had indeed been an affair going on between him and Trowa.

Quatre thought he handled it well. The press from the other side of the rumor, however, did not. They were not able to contain the crisis from their end, denying everything just as one source or another, who all claimed to be confidants, appeared out of nowhere with supposed insider knowledge. If Trowa did not trust anyone after that then Quatre wouldn’t blame him. His partner’s threat, in essence, had backfired on him and it was perhaps his choice to divulge that bit of information that caused problems in the end. Quatre almost felt sorry for Trowa if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one responsible for involving him in a situation he didn’t want to be a part of.

Post-production, however, went smoothly. It was only by luck that there was not much filming left and interactions between him and Trowa were no longer required. It quelled some of the rumors at least when they were no longer seen within range of each other. Trowa had not contacted him since. Quatre did not attempt to make it happen. Whatever they shared for the duration of the filming may have meant something to either of them, but Quatre was still at a state of confusion, leaving him with little desire to explore that further. The repercussions to his family were first and foremost in his mind.

It was surprising then, that after months of no contact, Quatre caught a glimpse of his once secret lover in the conference room adjacent to his dressing room. Today, they were doing a photo shoot for marketing and he had been required to come in. He doubted that Trowa knew but considered this a chance to see where exactly they were at. He made no move to avoid Trowa this time although the other, through sheer will of force, it seemed, was persistent in keeping away from him. The role reversal would have been amusing if it didn’t, in the least, make him realize what a pain he had been himself all those times the other tried to be friendlier with him.

It was after a busy session of photo shoots that he finally got a chance to corner the director. His outfit for the confrontation left much to be desired, but it would have to do. Risking changing while Trowa ran away was not an option.

“Hey!”

Trowa was the one who stiffened upon his approach. If he was reclusive when they were teens, he was even more so now. Once he’d recovered, he continued walking, refusing to acknowledge that his attention was called.

“Stop. We have to talk.” Quatre dared to insist in front of witnesses.

“You win.”

Quatre let out a breath and placed his hands on his waist. He knew he looked ridiculous dressed in a peplum dress matched with a considerable heel and a dolled-up face. There was little time to change into something more appropriate for the encounter.

“This is not a competition.” He never treated it as such anyway.

“I’m getting a divorce.”

It was not unexpected considering the news going around lately, but Quatre let him say what he wanted. It gave him time to think about how to broach the matter of their maybe-relationship and what it was exactly.

“Look, I was looking out for the best interest--”

“Your own best interest,” Trowa concluded. He had the nerve to speak that way despite what he’d done. He placed his hands inside his pockets, looking around to check if they’d been spotted by anyone. The paranoia reminded Quatre of himself. Seeing on Trowa what he was usually like gave him insight on how it was for people to deal with him.

“I’m not going to deny that.”

“Good.” Trowa looked anywhere but at him. A punch to his face would have been appropriate, but again, Quatre considered how it would look like to have a picture of him in a dress punching another guy in the face doing the rounds. It would be a publicity nightmare.

“But it was never my intention to cause any harm to you in the process of me trying to protect myself,” Quatre admitted.

“You’re smarter than that. You got Duo on your side.”

Quatre paused, allowing that statement to hang in the air. The campaign to get Duo on his side could not be denied. Duo Maxwell, who got on everyone’s good side, would have been the best weapon in anyone’s arsenal. Quatre had gotten to him first or at least thought to use him first. If Trowa considered it a dirty trick then so be it.

“Duo’s not stupid enough to be used.” His reasoning was succinct.

“So you say.”

He pulled on the pleated strip of fabric on his waist, wanting to immediately change into something that would at least appear to support the veracity of his argument. A suit would have perhaps been too formal. His normal wear should have been the minimum.

Before they could go any further, Trowa’s phone went off with a mighty buzz.

“Please, take that,” Quatre offered, wanting to find some space to think about what he wanted to say next. Whatever anger he may have felt fizzled out as the minutes ticked. Perhaps, he lacked the grit required to state his half-hearted case.

Trowa turned his back to him and when Quatre was satisfied that he wouldn’t run away, allowed him some privacy to talk. Only, he didn’t get very far when Trowa handed him the phone.

“It’s for you.”

“Hello.”

What he didn’t expect was to hear aforementioned weapon on the other end of the line.

“Happy, you bastard?” Duo hissed. He didn’t know why Duo should be infuriated but thought again. Duo was always mad at him regardless of what was happening. He would have probably continued with that chokehold on him during one of the shoots if he didn’t risk being charged with assault or if he’d succeeded, manslaughter. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone?”

“How did you know I was with Trowa?”

“I asked him if he’s seen you yet and lo and behold, he hands you the phone.” The time it took Duo to pause left time for Quatre to look away from Trowa’s intense, but unnervingly serene gaze. “I expected you to handle this better. Trowa is _my_ friend too. The fallout to him is not what I expected out of a mastermind like you, unless that was intentional in which case you are a goddamned monster.”

Quatre didn’t think he had to explain himself, not even to Duo. He had thought about this, of course, but he had no ill intentions in the process of protecting his image. Honestly, his image as the representative of his family was more important than his image as an actor. He didn’t mind if they attacked his lack of acting chops. They would not attack his reputation.

“You own the fucking planet, Quatre Winner,” Duo continued when he wouldn’t respond. “It’s time to take responsibility of what mommy and daddy handed to you and own up to it. You can keep on doing the Hollywood thing with the straight-faced lying and the fashionable cheating ‘til the day you’re just another washed-up actor. I don’t care. But if you’re going to be in it, then learn to deal with the repercussions and stop being a damn hypocrite.”

“I didn’t know--”

“Now you do, don’t you? Everyone else knew before you did. Well, boohoo.”

That was rather annoying no matter how much he defended Duo from his own, offended front, but it was fortunate when Duo himself ended it on his own. He didn’t think he could have listened to much more of it.

“I’ve got to go and attend to the kids and family you _don’t_ have,” he excused. “Now go do the world a favor and make that three-by-four or four-by-three or whatever the hell they call it these days happen. There’s no use in denying it if it’s what you really want. Punch him in that model face of his and move on.”

He rubbed the heel of his hand on his forehead, handing the phone back to Trowa without a word. That was rather exasperating, something he expected out of Duo and it did little to alleviate his insecurity about discussing the situation with Trowa. It didn’t help either that his toes were killing him inside shoes that were far too small and far too pointed for his masculine feet. He almost thought about abandoning them but thought otherwise. The foot prisons kept him from running away.

“If I didn’t still have a massive crush on you, I can assure you that I’d have left your company and abandoned my phone a while back.”

The gentle soul in Quatre immediately left him. He grabbed Trowa’s wrist, unmindful of the stares they got from witnesses and potential moles. Trying to be nice just wasn’t going to cut it. He pushed Trowa into the first unoccupied room he could find and locked the door behind them. Beyond a doubt, attraction was a factor that lead to the recognition of his sexuality. If he thought about it, it was never really confusion, just a reluctance to accept something he considered taboo, a self-imposed taboo he never thought to breach. Now Trowa was here. His first male lover was more attractive than any woman he’d ever been with, looking sulky and hesitant at the same time.

“I’m attracted to you,” he admitted, making sure that confession reached the other’s ear by coming so close that his lips almost collided with Trowa’s earlobe. Flattery seemed to be Trowa’s weakness as he let his guard down. Quatre did not let that opportunity pass, moving his lips over Trowa’s and kissing him. It was powerful and insistent. It told Trowa that he too could be assertive and pushy and demanding in a way that silenced all refusals. It told Trowa that he was no wallflower willing to be scolded for what was both their fault.

“I probably liked you,” Quatre said, pushing away from him to notice the smudge of his lipstick on the other’s face. Trowa looked like he’d just been attacked with rouge. “Probably,” he repeated again. “But I don’t like what you did and don’t you dare give me attitude without having even explained yourself.”

“I was--”

“I didn’t say I was interested in hearing it,” Quatre cut him off. That was the most rude he’d ever been with the director and he internally cringed. He was not the confrontational type. He didn’t like being unable to control his growing anger. “You get yourself sorted out and I’ll do the same. You might have a perfectly good explanation or you might not. The point is – using your celebrity status to get away with crap like this that at least _I_ consider unconscionable is the biggest turn-off. Don’t get deluded into thinking this sort of Hollywood behavior is the norm in the real world. It’s not and I don’t want any part of it.”

He left Trowa then, stunned and unable to react. His clothes were stifling as were the people training their eyes on him as he avoided their gaze. Yes, his make-up was a mess and the next person exiting the room he had just vacated would look suspicious. It was a consequence he was prepared to face because he had already come up with a way to spin that tale.

It was necessary to take himself out of the situation quickly because if he’d stayed a second longer, if he’d allowed Trowa to talk, he would have heard what he already knew was coming. Trowa wanted to try again. It was in his fairly readable eyes. The entitled bastard was going to say it and he didn’t know how well he could hold up before he caved because Trowa was just the right amount of charming and just the right amount of persuasive. Quatre’s complete lack of self-confidence, induced, in part, by his underlying addiction, would surely betray his sense of reasoning. He knew he would fall for it.

After changing and getting all the cosmetics off his face, he immediately went straight for his house, opening drawers and cupboards and upended his mattress in an effort to collect what he blamed as the cause for his severe lack of judgment. Medicine bottles came rolling out from underneath the bed skirt prescribed by doctors with a license but no conscience. He’d thrown money at these professionals and they’d accepted, writing him prescriptions for anything he asked for without question. He dug up needles and vials from boxes buried within boxes located in drawers deep into custom-made furniture so detailed not even the makers knew there were secret openings. He pulled up carpet in several parts of his living room, retrieving powder-filled plastic Ziplocs patted down so evenly you wouldn’t be able to tell they were there from the even top of the carpet. He even had them in medical patches and swabs nicely arranged sideways between the sugar and the flour bags Heero never touched. When he had all of it in front of him on top of the kitchen counter, he mentally prepared himself to get rid of it. The amount was massive, embarrassingly massive. It could easily kill the people on the streets he colluded with to get them.

Noam growled beside him. He knew too.

“I know, buddy,” he said, trying to figure out the safest way to dispose of all of them. He didn’t want anyone going through the trash and ending up with usable materials, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his day searching for disposal methods on the internet either. Just collecting all of them in one place would have to do for now.

Afterwards, he dropped by the drugstore to buy yards of gauze, medical tape, ethyl alcohol, cotton and a pair of winter gloves. Noam seemed worried when he got back home dropping his purchased materials on the coffee table and proceeding to pull off his hooded sweater. He sat on the couch and opened up the packages before holding his arms out in front of him for examination. His skin was a mess, littered with track marks so minute most people probably didn’t notice. He applied the alcohol to his arm and wrapped it in gauze from elbow to wrist, securing it tight so that it would be difficult to take out if his cravings hit and he tried to put a needle in a vein for the rest of the day. He put his hoodie back on and then put on the gloves. His head would be so damn itchy the next day, he was sure. He thought he would do his scalp a favor.

When he was done, he went straight to bed despite the early evening knowing that he would be a mess very soon. He would deal with it, he assured himself, because this time he was driven. This time, he would not let these substances act as an excuse for his behavior. Needless to say, it was a difficult night.

He woke up the next day to Heero Yuy in a tracksuit on his hands and knees crawling under his bed. He’d been in a chaotic sleep and had taken off his top that night. The top was helpfully thrown at his house intruder to catch his attention.

“I’m walking the dog,” was the morning greeting of Mr. Yuy with no excuse as to his disposition. For all Quatre knew, this might have been his morning activity – collecting illicit substances for disposal and walking his dog.

“It’s all in the kitchen counter waiting to be discarded,” Quatre said groggily, turning over so that Heero’s bum wasn’t the first thing he saw in the morning.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” He groaned with annoyance at the slit of light escaping the curtains to hit his eye at just the right angle. He lifted his hand to his face, forgetting that he was wearing gloves and scratched at his itchy head.

“We’ll get rid of it after I walk the dog.”

Quatre turned to him again, away from the light’s assault. Heero was holding Noam’s leash on one hand with the canine immediately appearing next to him with tongue out. He was ready to join the fitness fanatic for their morning routine.

“Fine,” he said, kicking the covers out and sliding his legs to the side of the bed. “I’ll join you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Change of lifestyle.”

“In more ways than one?”

Quatre paused, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t told Heero yet. He hadn’t seen him since the realization hit that he preferred men, but he must have known – from all the tabloids and gossip shows’ current hottest topic. He didn’t know Heero’s view on the matter or if he held prejudices against them. It was uncomfortable and Quatre didn’t know what to say so he sat there in silence.

“I dated a guy before,” Heero offered awkwardly, probably his way of assuring him that he was okay with it.

“You’re bi?”

“It was Duo… for a week and a half.”

“Oh.”

Heero was a serial co-star dater, so that was to be expected. But that didn’t mean anything because most people, excluding himself, of course, would jump at the chance to try Duo out, even for just a week and a half.

“ _Duo_?” That meant so much for their fan base. Quatre briefly considered then dismissed letting that teeny bit of information out.

“Shut up. I know. I’d have gone for you too.”

Quatre coughed, choking on his own spit. He wondered if Heero and himself also had their own fan base and balked. He would definitely be keeping all of this to himself. He supposed that Heero truly did like dating his co-stars. Even Relena did not escape that. He heard that they dated for a good part of three years.

“I’d have done it,” Heero continued. “…If I suspected you were even the slightest bit gay.”

_That_ was a surprise. Quatre thought the whole world knew about his sexuality before he did. Everyone acted like he should have known twenty years prior. It was a refreshing change.

“Alright, stop it. I’m flattered you didn’t assume I was gay because I was effeminate like everyone else did, but that’s the maximum number of compliments I can handle this morning. Let’s go for that walk.”

“I meant run.”

“Shut up, Yuy. I can run, so get off my floor and let me clean up and change.”

It didn’t take two blocks for Heero to bring up the topic that was foremost in the celebrity news recently. Quatre knew it was coming and for some reason, he didn’t mind talking to Heero about it.

“So, Trowa?” He sounded surprised.

“What’s wrong with you? You and the others seemed to think it was hilarious when you were teasing me.”

In fact, he didn’t know why he wasn’t more outraged at their behavior. They all assumed and that just might have been the catalyst that encouraged Trowa. They were leading him on the path of adultery and it all seemed okay with them. He was _not_ okay with that.

“Teasing, Quatre, because that’s the thing people do when they see you two anywhere near each other. It’s like a running gag. I didn’t think you’d be serious.”

“Well, neither did I.” He scratched his head, taking out the gloves obstructing his fingernails. “Neither did I.”

“Wait up, you’re going too fast.”

Quatre upped his pace to make Heero suffer for that comment about the running gag. It may have been a bit of harmless fun to him but it was cruel to Trowa who really did feel something for him. It seemed childish, the kind of thing he didn’t think they were capable of.

“I’m sorry, alright,” Heero said when he caught up several minutes later with breaths quick and limbs continuing to make the effort to keep up. Even Noam was starting to tire. Quatre felt merciful enough to slow down to a jog instead.

“You should be apologizing to Trowa, for egging him on.”

“Are you serious? He thrived on that. _And_ it helped you realize something.”

“That you guys like to make fun at our expense?”

“Jesus. Listen to your righteous self. I’m not surprised you can’t handle the paparazzi.”

“And _you_ can?”

“I can’t be around your negativity today, Winner. It’s messing with my character. They’ll notice it at the studio. I’ll see you when you’ve cooled off.”

Heero jogged away from him then _with_ the dog – the nerve. What followed were audible clicks of a camera. After hearing it, it was not hard to notice the long lenses sticking out from behind a tree trunk. This wasn’t even the common people anymore. These were the people getting paid to take his picture. Now he supposed a ‘feud’ with Heero Yuy would be news too.

Quatre ran for another few miles, not getting back until over an hour later and when he got back, Noam was already eating his food. There was breakfast also prepared for him on the kitchen counter waiting to be devoured right next to a wayward needle with a note that read ‘you missed this one’. Quatre dumped the needle into the sharps bin Heero left behind and sat himself heavily down on a bar stool to eat. It was not proving to be a very good past couple of days. Why was everyone against him anyway?


	15. Act Fifteen

He’d been summoned to the family home. His parents never summoned him, only asked to see him during the holidays or made surprise visits every once in a while. It was his eldest sister who had a bad habit of having him report for a scolding when she thought it necessary and he supposed she considered this of highest priority since she hadn’t summoned him in years, not even during the worst of his addiction.

He was nervous, nervous since he’d debarked the plane with a suitcase and a singular paparazzi following him out the terminal. He didn’t think there was any need to hide his identity here where half the people in the airport didn’t know who he was and a majority of the people in the state didn’t care. He was too preoccupied anyway to pay any heed to the questions coming from the man so dedicated to his craft that he shoved a long lens so close to his face it was hard not to breathe into it.

“Aw, shit, you better not have ruined the lens.”

Quatre didn’t even blink at the accusation. His anxiety was just that much stronger than any annoyances that might have disturbed him at any other time.

“Sir, step away, please.”

One of the conveniences of being back in his home state, or inconveniences – depending on how you looked at it, was that there was never a lack of a car ready to pick him up. Said vehicle always came with a well-dressed chauffer and a menacing bodyguard. It was overkill, he’d tell his father, but he was not about to complain about it now. Right now, it was coming in handy.

“Wait, Quatre, what do you say to—“

Door closed – check. Sound-proof windows and window tint – thank the heavens. Bodyguard blocking any further harassment – thank you, daddy.

“Thanks for picking me up. Let’s get out of here.”

The drive felt familiar, giving him time to look outside his window and watch the all too busy lives of the people on the streets. ‘Always in a hurry’ were the first words that came to mind. Was that why he left? It probably wasn’t, because he didn’t think he would mind being one of those busy people on their nine to five jobs striving to make a living. Now that his movie was over and until they did the press tour, he was back to being unemployed and somehow, having the leisure of walking on the sandy beaches and dropping in on a Pilates session made him feel guilty. He had to have _his_ share of hard work in order to enjoy the pleasure of free time.

His phone buzzed once against his chest, the faint vibration forcing him to take his eyes off the scene outside his window. He picked the cell phone out of his jacket pocket to check what the commotion was about and promptly dropped it into his front suitcase pocket. His nieces and nephews just might have been pulling a prank on him when they recommended dating apps. Who knew how many lewd photos he had in his cell by now?

“We’re here, sir.”

“Already?”

“Sounds like you don’t want to be home.”

“Let’s call it 50-50.”

‘Straight to father’s cigar room’ was his sister’s instruction. He hoped she was late and he had reason to believe she would be. After all, running the family business took up most of her time. If she was going to be more than half an hour late, it wouldn’t be the first time and she never apologized, at least not to him.

Bypassing the majority of the Winner family members living at the main house, he made sure to chuck his cell phone into the deepest dust bin on the way to the room. He endured a few pinches to his cheek on the way there but made it mostly unscathed. What he found in his father’s cigar room was exactly the description of the room – his father in a large, antique chair (a supposed once-throne of some ruler from an obscure country – his mother’s taste) smoking a cigar of the finest quality based on the slightly spicy, slightly sweet aroma of lung-clogging smoke coming out of the room. He looked delighted to see him from the way his eyes crinkled at the sides to match with the grin on his aging face.

“My baby boy finally comes for a visit.”

Quatre was thinking along the lines of prodigal son but that was fine too.

“Hey, dad,” he greeted, taking a seat across from him. The throne-chair came in a slightly different but matching pair – for the co-ruler, he assumed. “Strange how I used to think these chairs were gigantic.”

“They still are, Quatre.”

Regardless, Quatre felt like shrinking into them. He didn’t know if his father would bring up his recent self-discovery. He was just that scared to talk about it. When the press kept on asking about it, it felt wrong somehow and when they printed the most pansy pictures of him they could find, they made it even worse. He felt like defending his masculinity at every turn.

“I’m not bringing it up,” his father presented as maybe sort of a truce and to that, Quatre breathed a sigh of relief. “Not that I want to avoid the topic. Your mother said you’re getting enough of it from outside.”

He nodded, suddenly tight-lipped.

“I am not mad, Quatre,” his father said, himself sighing. “I wasn’t mad about the drugs. I’m not mad about this and that’s all I’m going to say about it. We’ll discuss this further later.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, choosing to stare at the ancient mosaic floor. He didn’t know how grand they were, not until now when he was no longer running his RC cars and stuffed dinosaurs across it.

“But if you will need me to castrate another man for hurting you, I’m up for the challenge. You can trust my expertise. I’ve had four daughters.”

“ _Dad_!”

“Just saying.”

He kicked his shoes off and tucked his legs underneath him to get comfortable. This was never a formal room for him, not really. It used to be more of a playroom and he couldn’t fathom why his sister did not summon him to the pretentious home office instead. He was looking forward to staring at the sculpted busts of ancient Winner ancestors while she said her piece.

“Are you still in contact with Maxwell’s boy? What name does he go by these days?”

“ _Dad_ ,” he whined again. He was tired of being the bridge between Duo and his father’s long time friend and associate. “If Uncle Rich, Mr. Maxwell would like to be on speaking terms with him then he should have thought about that before abandoning Duo and his mother in the streets as a child.”

“Quatre, what did I say about judging other people on their parenting methods.”

“You said not to do it.”

“Precisely.”

Quatre let out an exasperated breath. His father did have a point. He wasn’t a parent so he wouldn’t even know the first thing about raising children. The idea of abstaining from judgment must have been from his father’s own experience of being admonished for being too lax with him. From most people’s point of view, he wasn’t raised right either and he wasn’t helping his parents’ reputation any by his recent string of unfortunate mishaps.

In some ways, he understood why Duo didn’t take his checks. Maxwell senior was a member of the Winner company board and whatever checks Quatre wrote out with the company logo, Duo interpreted as accepting money from his deadbeat father, which he refused to do.

“I can tell you that he isn’t going to see his grandchildren anytime soon.”

“You know he’s a good man.”

Quatre did not want to take sides. Richard Maxwell just made it difficult given his rather harsh parenting approach. He must have based it off his own experience starting at the company mailroom climbing all the way up to the boardroom. Richard was his father’s favorite protégé. He was a principled, hard-working man but an absent father. Duo and his mother saw none of his enormous wealth growing up. Richard wanted him to learn real-life skills even if it meant losing his mother at an early age and growing up in the streets to fend for himself. Duo coped just fine, like father like son, earning a wealth of his own and gaining a stubborn refusal to associate himself, his wife or his offspring with his father.

Possibly much worse than that, he turned Quatre into his punching bag, transferring his deep-seated hatred of his father on him. There was resentment there, as Duo had admitted, of Quatre growing up spoiled with want for nothing from loving parents when he, whose father worked the same circles, had to suffer the opposite. He even changed his name to hide himself but somehow couldn’t let the Maxwell part of his name go. Maybe there was still hope there after all.

“Alright, dad, I’ll do it for you. What message does he want to relay?”

“Tell him his father wants to see him and the family. The man’s getting old. Give him a chance.”

Quatre could imagine Duo strangling him as he said it, preferably at a set of some movie so he could do it for real while looking like he was acting. He was definitely not above that. It would be act two of their drama.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded. Richard taught him the ropes. It was the least he could do for the man. “Any idea why Anita wants me here?” he brought up next.

His father shrugged, puffing smoke from his cigar. It smelled familiar and toxic all at once. “I’ll admit I have a few guesses, but let’s keep up the suspense, shall we?”

“Oh, please,” was the female voice that reacted from behind them.

Quatre immediately straightened out and slipped his feet back into his shoes. He didn’t even hear her coming until she was right next to his chair. It was tall enough that it slightly obscured her presence. His father had the gall to grin to his military-like response to her sudden presence.

“I’m going to need him for a few minutes… or hours, dad. If you wouldn’t mind…”

“You’re on your own,” his father whispered to him the same time he applied a heavy hand to his shoulder in a show of support. He slipped his feet into bedroom slippers and reluctantly vacated his well-worn chair with a box of cigars tucked under an arm.

“Quatre,” his sister started with no preamble. “I read about it. I’ve known about it for years. It doesn’t make a difference to me if you prefer men. I hated your last two fiancés anyway – definitely not Winner material.”

It sounded positive, at least, except for the last statement. What exactly was Winner material and was Trowa considered Winner material? He paused to consider why Trowa’s name even came up.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” she continued, taking the seat their father had just vacated. “What I am about to say, you will keep to yourself.”

He nodded, paying special attention to the current Winner head. This sounded serious and he hoped it wasn’t anything terrible like a health problem or a relationship issue with the husband because he was the last person knowledgeable enough in such matters. He considered himself irresponsible and severely lacking in experience - a consequence of growing up spoiled.

“I’m retiring soon.”

“You’re still young.”

“Let me finish, Quatre,” she scolded and that caused him to shut up. This was big news for the company. It meant a complete shake-up, possible restructuring, and an upcoming battle royal at the boardroom to decide on her successor. It meant even _he_ , the largest shareholder, had no choice but to join the fray.

“I _am_ old and most certainly eligible for retirement soon. We are twenty years apart if you’ve forgotten.”

How could he possibly forget? She felt more like a parent to him.

Quatre didn’t want to hear about her retirement for what it would mean for him and the rest of the family. It meant having to take sides when the time came. He was too young when his father had his own retirement, but back then, there was only the obvious choice of who would take over. This time around, he couldn’t even name anyone conceivable out of the top of his head.

“I heard what you did in Brussels… and Berlin.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“Are you having my kids fight it out with one another?”

“Wait. Do they know?”

“Do _not_ change the subject, Quatre.”

Her children might have sensed it, or at least Adrian did, when he practically blackmailed him into showing up in his sister’s office in Berlin. That kid had a gift of premonition. He probably wanted the job too.

“Your kids fighting over business matters is the last thing I would get involved in. I needed a plane.”

“You own hangars full of them.” She waved a hand in the air. “Better yet, you could have purchased all the planes in the airport. Since when did you stop flying commercial?”

He would have rolled his eyes if he were talking to someone else but this was his sister and she was the most intimidating person he had ever met.

“It’s a long story, Anita. The bottom line is that I wasn’t planning anything when I showed up in the Brussels headquarters. “

“Are you aware of the power you hold in the company, little brother? You probably do not if you have the audacity to show up where you’re not supposed to, stirring the pot with no idea what you want to do with the contents. I’d have been less disappointed if you told me you were planning a hostile take-over.”

Quatre tried to figure out if he had that kind of evil in him and decided that it probably existed somewhere but he wouldn’t be bothered with it. He had no interest in making more money than he already had. They say money and power came hand in hand, but what did it mean to have all that when he hadn’t even figured himself out?

“You want the company.”

“Excuse me?”

“You want it. I can see it in you. I can smell it off the sloppy clothes you’re wearing. I’ve been in this business too long not to know desire when I see it. That’s why I’m nominating you to take over after I announce my retirement.”

He stumbled out of his chair in surprise. She was probably so swamped with work that she was going out of her mind. The recent drop in oil prices, the biggest headache to hit the company since the housing bubble - that must have been it. She was probably so stressed out she wanted to quit. Quatre considered that she must have known how influential her vote of confidence was and that a nomination by her might as well have meant that she was handing the operation of the company over to him. She had her own kids and a long list of competent, not to mention experienced, individuals vying for the job.

“Have you told Karim?”

His sister huffed in response, blowing imaginary bangs off her face. She crossed her arms and then crossed her legs. It was obvious he wasn’t the only one finding her decision a bit… momentous.

“I am _this_ close to a divorce,” she said holding her thumb and index finger out for emphasis. The redness of her shiny manicure gleamed off the light from above. “We’ve got three brilliant children and I picked none of them. Instead, I picked my little brother, my little brother who’s a drug addict going through a major life discovery. Not to mention, he’s being hounded by the Hollywood gossip-mongers about an affair he’s having with a director and his starring role since playing a terrorist happens to be a transvestite in a lurid, bi-sexually erotic tale.”

She summed it up in a neat little bow.

“I can see why he protested,” Quatre agreed but now was not the time to feel embarrassed about it. What he was more curious about was his sister’s decision. She picked him and she was no idiot. There must have been a perfectly good reason. “How come none of that turned you off?”

She pulled her blouse down, uncrossing her arms in the process. “If you can’t see it then you can’t see what everybody else sees in you.”

“I’m a patient guy.”

“Bingo.”

Quatre sat back down. If that was all it took then her standards were pretty low. He would have thought hard work and ambition would come first.

“You don’t have to be self-deprecating to be a nice guy.” She tossed a cigar cutter at him to get his attention. “I want to spend time with my grandkids, Quatre, just like how our parents got to spend time with you. If I can’t do that with my children then I could at least try to salvage something with the youngest ones.”

“Is it because I _have_ no kids?” It didn’t mean that he couldn’t have any. He couldn’t decide if he should have been affronted by that.

“My youngest doesn’t have any either and you could easily adopt. That wasn’t the point.”

“I barely have any experience.”

“Leaving was the best thing you could have done. You’ve got a lot more of the real world experience that we need. You run a non-profit and you’ve built a rehab facility, one I was hoping you would stick with.”

“Anita.”

“You’ve built a successful company of your own. To me, that counts for so many more years spent at a cubicle in the Manhattan office.”

Quatre paused in his protests, considering if that was what he really wanted to do. As a child, it was certainly what he set out to do. His father was his hero and whatever he did, he wanted to do too.

“Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not giving it to you that easily. I have another year before retirement and I won’t make the announcement until a couple of months before. In that time, I want you to prove to me that you are a capable, responsible individual mature enough to keep the family business running for decades to come. I want you clean, Quatre, so that means weekly drug tests.”

He was about to open his mouth when he was rudely cut-off.

“Don’t interrupt, little brother. I am dead serious about the drugs. With the money you have, it’s more likely that you die of an overdose before you go bankrupt. Our parents were never hard on you but someone has to be. If I find out you’re still using, I am going to appoint a guardian ad litem, meaning the court will rule you incapacitated with no access to any of your accounts. I will check you into the strictest rehab facility where you can’t unlock the doors. Understood?”

He nodded. This was exactly the lecture he was expecting. She was going to attack his freedom _and_ his wallet. Usually, the wallet guaranteed him some freedom. As if on cue, he felt a sudden chill from a gust of wind that did not exist, reminding him that withdrawal wasn’t such a grand option either. He’d been getting terrible leg cramps recently that had him clutching his calves like he wanted to rip them off.

“I am also giving you two projects to work on. I’ll send for the files later. Show me what you can do and it better be good. I’ve still got a husband to convince and kids to appease if it comes down to it. I can assure you Adrian is going to lose it.”

“I don’t want any arguments with the nephews and nieces…”

“He’ll get over it,” she said with an uncaring wave of her hand. Eyeing him critically, she sat back on the enormous chair to make herself more comfortable before her change of topic. “Now tell me about this guy who’s turned you into his concubine.”

That was by far the worst term he’d heard used on him and he couldn’t help the indignation that blossomed within. He was not expecting poise and finesse, only a bit of tact when it came to talking about his rumored and very true affair.

“Let’s not use that term.”

“I never imagined my own brother as a mistress.”

“ _Paramour_ ,” he corrected “…and I had no idea he was married. I would never have done it otherwise. You know me. I wouldn’t—“

“Not bad. He’s a good-looking guy,” she interrupted, grinning at him for losing his cool. “Let’s hope he has a pleasant personality to go with the good looks. Otherwise, our father has extensive experience with… adjusting disreputable boyfriends.”

If he was embarrassed before, he’d reached the threshold now as he covered his face with a hand to momentarily escape her gaze.

“And do you still not know how to use a smart phone? Put a lock on it, little brother, or everyone else will see the explicit propositions these guys on Grindr keep sending you. I am too old to see that many dicks on one phone.”

Quatre could only curl into the oversize chair and tuck his heated face into his knees as his sister slipped his formerly discarded phone in between his tucked arms.

“And stop letting the kids talk you into these things,” she advised before standing to leave and ruffling his hair. “You’re a good person, Quatre. Never change that.”


	16. Act Sixteen

Quatre spent most of the week rifling through tedious paperwork contained within two filing boxes and a tablet filled to the brim with additional digitized documentation. It was taking up his entire living room as Heero had not-so-helpfully pointed out during his early morning visits. Noam dutifully stayed away from his important piles, choosing instead to quietly sit next to him on the couch. With his warm head on his lap, Quatre was reluctant to reposition the tangle of his legs lest he disturbed his furry companion.

He picked up a folder, wondering if his sister had meant for him to arrange the stacks of papers instead. It was difficult to find what was relevant and what wasn’t and that alone took up much of his time. He looked balefully at one still unopened box further away from him. His sister’s kind post-it note read “I hope you’re not expecting to get paid for this (or receive any credit). – With love, A.Winner-Dietrich”.

On his coffee table was a respectable stack of scripts that he had yet to go through. Duo’s agent, who he supposed was now vying to be his too, informed him that offers have been coming in. Instead of asking him if he was interested, the agent extraordinaire instead sent them by mail with a note of his own, urging him to go through each one. It seemed nobody cared to ask him what he actually wanted to do.

“My leg fell asleep,” he informed his couch companion, lightly scratching behind a floppy ear and carefully readjusting his position. When his legs were free, he shook them in front of him to get the circulation going. He counted three leg cramps so far since the morning, two of them happening on the couch where he was seated. They hurt too much and he was tired of them. Despite taking in as much electrolytes as he could, they still attacked at unexpected intervals. Heero had left him with bottles of coconut water and a breakfast bowl before leaving for work. Quatre had to admit that he made an ideal spouse. He was so grateful that he _almost_ asked him to be his roommate. Almost, because he didn’t think he could stand living with him.

Sipping on his drink to get his electrolytes in, he almost chocked on the liquid when he received a rather lewd proposal on his phone. He’d started to become scared of the buzz coming off it. Even inside the trash bin, it vibrated insistently with a noise that begged you to put a stop to it. He almost turned the power off completely when it buzzed again, this time alerting him to an incoming call. He wasn’t so sure if he should take it but did anyway. He really needed a break. Stretching his neck from side to side, he answered with a polite “Quatre Winner speaking.”

“Quatre.” Trowa’s voice was passive. He didn’t expect him to call, at least not for a while after he’d told him off. “I heard you… happen to have a Lockheed P-38--”

“Lightning, yes.” He adjusted his hold on the phone and dug another three thick folders from his open filing box. “It’s a beauty.”

“We’re working on a new film, World War II era. Production instructed me to kindly ask you,” he said before pausing. The quick pause alerted him to the noise going on in the background. It sounded like Trowa was being coached on what to say. It also sounded like he was being teased. Quatre put down his paperwork, giving his full attention to the call. For some reason, he’d become quite annoyed. “…to ask you if we could rent the aircraft.”

Quatre drummed his fingers on the coffee table. ‘Production’ was having fun with Trowa, it seemed. It sounded like a kindergarten classroom complete with the kissing sounds and whistles.

“Might I suggest that you take this call somewhere private,” he advised.

There was another pause as Trowa presumably changed venues. He patiently waited a few minutes until the conversation started again. “Sorry about that.” He sounded apologetic and just as annoyed. “It’s—“

“Unavoidable?”

“…obvious I’m still attracted to you. They know my weakness.”

Not wanting to delve into it further as they had discussed it thoroughly the last time, Quatre changed the topic. “So about the plane…”

“Yes, the plane.” Trowa caught himself and sounded a bit embarrassed for forgetting what he’d called for. “There aren’t very many of those in working condition I’m told.”

“That’s one of my favorite planes, Trowa.”

Certain filmmakers didn’t care about damaging property since there were insurance coverages in place, but insurance aside, he didn’t think he wanted to have that beauty go through a bad paint job and a beating, not to mention, a crash by an unqualified pilot. He’d had the aircraft painstakingly restored for several years before it came to its current condition.

“Was that a no?”

“I have other World War II planes,” he offered. “Most of them are in Salzburg. You can take your pick, but it has to be you – no production crew, no props department, just you.”

He wasn’t up to dealing with the people intent on teasing Trowa nor was he inclined to host the paparazzi in beautiful, quiet Austria.

“Quatre, I’m not an expert at planes. I wouldn’t know the first thing about war planes or which ones production would need.”

“I know them. I’ll come with you.”

Another pause. Quatre knew that it sounded like an invitation. He couldn’t be bothered to be subtle about it.

“What are you up to?” Apparently, Trowa knew what it sounded like too.

Quatre was bored, but it was more complicated than just being bored. Sure, the paperwork kept him busy enough to deal with the symptoms continually plaguing him, but he needed a change in scenery. His rump had already made an indentation on the couch, a sign that he’d been sitting there too long. Though Noam seemed content just to keep him company, he was sure that the canine wanted a change too. On top of that, Quatre was interested in pursuing a friendship with another gay man and Trowa was just about the only gay man he knew. Perhaps he would provide him with some tips on how to deal with the morons sending him vulgar messages. He wanted to go on a date, not go on a kinky sexual escapade.

“I’m lonely?” he said with uncertainty. Maybe that was it.

There was some cursing from the other end of the line. “Jesus Christ, do you know what that sounds like to me?” Trowa said. “You _do_ know that I am still a hundred percent interested in you, right?”

“Yes.”

There was reluctance there followed by a long-suffering sigh before Trowa agreed to his proposal. “Fine. Tell me where and I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Trowa did not respond right away, probably weighing his options.

"We cannot be seen on the same flight together.”

Quatre had already taken that into account.

“I have a plane.” Actually, it was planes with an s, to be more accurate. He was sure at least one of them would be available for an intercontinental flight.

“How could I forget?” Trowa’s frustration was getting a little too obvious with his next request. “But _please_ don’t pilot the plane. I can guarantee that if you do, I will jump you then we’ll crash.”

Quatre liked the honesty. It was actually kind of endearing, but he didn’t dare mention that. It might have caused the director even greater misery, the kind of misery his usually calm demeanor was so openly conveying over the phone.

“Agreed,” he said because he could only imagine the disaster that could happen when his symptoms manifested in the middle of a flight. “We’ll find a schedule. I’ll send you the details.” He had to admit that the prospect of going away with Trowa was kind of exciting.

It didn’t take another week. Quatre was delighted to vacate his couch and leave the sunny, blue skies of L.A. for the quaint atmosphere of Salzburg. Armed with the Winner company paperwork he could not leave behind and Noam on the seat beside him, he sipped on the coconut water Heero had slipped into his luggage after rummaging through his fridge.

He made sure to come early to be certain that everything was in order including his passport and Noam’s vaccination certificates. Trowa was right on time, entering the plane with his luggage and a nervous expression. The flight crew took his jacket and bags before handing him a welcome drink and ushering him further inside the plane.

Quatre didn’t bother standing as his legs were folded on the seat, but he leaned forward when Trowa got close to hand him a piece of paper. Noam gave his own greeting, a nuzzle of the visitor’s leg, before settling back down beside him.

“Non-disclosure agreement,” Quatre explained when his travel companion looked at him in question. “For your peace of mind,” he added. “None of the crew will talk about what goes on in this trip plus they don’t have cell phones or any sort of recording devices on them.”

Trowa nodded and took it with gratitude. Quatre was sure that the last few months had been trying for the director due to the news about the affair. The last thing he needed was another mole going to the media to report the suspicious excursion. It gave Quatre reason to let his guard down too.

Trowa wandered around for a bit inside the jet with his drink in one hand and the legal document in the other. He acquainted himself with the aircraft, occasionally pulling drawers open and swiveling padded chairs. After a few minutes, he settled on a couch then transferred to a seat.

“I know it’s a big plane,” Quatre voiced. “But you don’t have to sit all the way in the back when there’s an open seat close by.”

His guest gathered his things and repositioned on a seat much closer to him.

“This is the best private jet I’ve seen in my life. It beats flying commercial,” he said finally.

“It’s overkill,” Quatre responded before going back to reading the contents of the folder in front of him. There were a maximum of seven people and one dog on the nineteen-passenger, 84 foot Embraer. The carbon footprint was staggering, but it was the only available aircraft he could find on such short notice. “You can take the room.”

Trowa held up his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “Do I even want to see the room?”

Quatre looked up from what he was reading. “You’ll probably have a more comfortable sleep.”

Trowa looked to be in awe, carrying on in nervous glances much like the way he chose his seat. He didn’t look like he knew where he should be positioning himself. It was an odd sight since Trowa himself was well off enough with equally well-off Hollywood friends who flew on private jets on a regular basis. Then again, this particular aircraft was one of the more luxurious planes in the Winner fleet - again, not really his choice. They only used it when the whole family needed to fly together.

“Thanks,” Trowa conceded then picked up a script that had fallen to the floor just as an announcement was made to prepare for take-off.

“Any of these you’re interested in?” he questioned after buckling himself in.

Quatre shrugged. “I haven’t read any of them.” He would once he got tired of going through company reports.

“You know,” Trowa brought up while leaning in to scratch the side of Noam’s stomach. The take-off was smooth, almost unnoticeable. “We’re getting good reviews for the film from the industry and you’re their best reviewed performer.”

It was the first he’d heard of it. That was probably why he had a few offers coming in along with Duo’s constant nagging to take his agent’s calls. It felt nice to be acknowledged. After all, the film really was a challenge starting from the fitness issues all the way to dealing with his cast mates. He was rightfully proud of what he’d accomplished with Trowa and the rest of the crew. There were, however, still promotion and film premieres coming up. It was going to be another bout of long traveling and hotel stays during the press tour, which was coming in a month’s time - all the more reason to speed up on his sister’s projects.

“Have you seen it?”

"Partly, with Wufei and the distributors. They’re almost done with editing.”

Quatre didn’t think too much more on the film and the compliment when he realized that now that they were in the air, they were pretty much alone. Sure, the crew and his dog were on the plane, but that was it - no gossipers, no photographers, no one to disturb them. He began to wonder if Trowa was a member of the mile high club before admonishing himself. It wouldn’t do to have those kinds of thoughts when the other was so close.

“If you don’t mind,” he said while retrieving a few folders from a briefcase. Distraction was the best option. “I’d like to finish at least some of these.”

It seemed impolite during the middle of their conversation, but his wayward thoughts centering on Trowa was a little too much on the inappropriate side. He didn’t want to start something since it would seem like the purpose of his invitation was to seduce his companion. He felt like his intentions were far more virtuous than that.

“Uh, sure,” Trowa responded with a frown.

The next few hours became restless with Quatre working on his project and Trowa seeming to sulk against the wide view windows. He offered the use of the entertainment area where Trowa could avail of a movie, a show or a game to keep him occupied. His guest immediately accepted with the company of the dog. The two of them got along well when it came to their choice of amusements evidenced by their subdued whoops of laughter and playfulness. Dinner came and went, which he refused on account of having very little appetite. Soon, the flight attendants suggested some sleep and pulled all the shades of the windows down with their permission. Trowa retired for the night in the room at the back of the plane, Noam following him up until the entrance of the room. Quatre stayed where he was to continue going through what felt like his hundredth folder.

When he began to lose his patience with the business jargon, Quatre moved to the couch with the first script he got a hold of. With an iced drink ready in one hand, he turned to the first page and started reading. He stopped to stretch, then read, then reclined before eventually falling asleep. The rapid thud of his heart against his chest was the first to wake him up, unfortunately, no more than a few hours after he’d claimed sleep. His insomnia was coming in full force these days and the night sweats were pervasive. He was lucky his leg hadn’t acted up yet.

The first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was Trowa’s presence illuminated by the low light. His expression was unreadable as he stood some distance from him, his hair hopelessly mussed. If he’d been watching him sleep, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“You’re trying to stop using,” was Trowa’s keen observation.

“Not trying. I’ve stopped,” Quatre corrected, leaving the couch to find a towel. He found one by the cupboard next to his sleeping dog. “As you can see, it isn’t so pretty.”

He swiped the towel on his face and his hair before fruitlessly abandoning his efforts altogether. He was too wet, about as wet as the leather couch he just vacated. He grabbed his bag from another cupboard and headed for the shower.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised before disappearing into the room. The water pressure on his back and head were a godsend and he would have stayed longer if he’d been alone, but with the knowledge of his guest out there alone and bored, he hurried and finished in no time. It was only when he exited the bathroom that he noticed the messy bed and the look of apprehension on Trowa’s face as he stood by the bedroom door.

“I’m sorry,” Trowa whispered into the semi-darkness, only the slight glow of a bedside lamp illuminating their space. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’ve been meaning to apologize for a while now.”

There was no further explanation on why. That was good enough for Quatre, at least for now since he wasn’t ready for a long, serious talk. He just wanted to get the loud thuds of the rapid heartbeats against his chest in order. They were aggravating even to his ears.

“Yeah,” he said without looking at him. Visions of opiates were dancing before his eyes, urging him to come home to them. They would make it all better. They would stop the symptoms. All he had to do was come back.

“Quatre.” He could barely hear him calling before Trowa came closer, whispering into his ear once again. “Quatre.” He felt hands lightly gripping his arms as if holding him upright. “It was always you.”

Trowa had no idea what was going on with his drug-dependent body. He had no inkling to what was going on inside his vulnerable mind. Trowa smelled like a hint of alcohol. Quatre didn’t know if he would cross that fine line. If he didn’t, he knew he would do it himself.

They stood in silence in the middle of the cabin with one asking for forgiveness and the other fighting his inner turmoil. Despite every moral aberration Quatre had accused Trowa of during their last encounter, he reached behind him and locked the door.

“We never did finish,” he said. The fateful interruption back then, the discovery that Trowa was already in a relationship - it bothered him but just for a moment because he could be selfish too.

“Quatre,” Trowa said with warning, letting him go before moving one step back. “I want to do it right this time.”

Quatre laughed, not in mockery, but simply because he felt like it. What did ‘right’ actually mean? The thundering in his ears was so distracting, so he let it take over. He heard ringing in his ears as he pushed Trowa to sit on the bed then kissed him. It was funny how, with a numb lip, it felt like he didn’t know how to kiss. He put one knee up on the mattress and leaned down to get a better angle, hooking a hand behind Trowa’s neck. He was all on his own before Trowa pulled his other knee forward until he was sitting on top of him.

“What has gotten into you?” Trowa questioned, rubbing circles on his back. Only then did he notice the jackhammering heartbeats. He was mildly alarmed. “You should get checked.”

“Withdrawal symptoms,” Quatre explained then pushed him down on the mattress. Trowa stayed still as he hovered over him. “Now how do you suggest I go about this? I’d still like to sleep with you.”

It was unfair. He knew it the second Trowa groaned in frustration. But this was what he wanted, not those awkward suggestions from potential mates, not a risky date with a stranger and certainly not a recommendation from his family.

Trowa pulled him down until they were chest to chest. “Slow down,” he urged. He didn’t say anything else, just held him. His own heartbeats, loud and erratic, slowed down to Trowa’s pace. It felt like so much relief in so little time. He relaxed in their inelegant position with their legs in tangles, but it was comfortable, so comfortable that he thought he could actually get some decent sleep.

“I’ve used, casually,” Trowa brought up long after as he rolled them over to their side and stroked his hair. “I’d like to say it’s unavoidable in the business, but that isn’t true.”

Quatre felt so content with the fingers in his hair and the gentle voice in his ears.

“I’m also a functional alcoholic.”

Quatre leaned forward to place a quick peck on his lips.

“Are you drunk _now_?” he asked.

“Hardly.”

“I’m sorry for offering you a drink.”

Trowa snorted. “You’re the only person I can see apologizing for something you didn’t do yourself.”

Quatre leaned in for a deeper, lazy kiss. He wasn’t used to the rough texture of the bearded face when he placed a hand on his cheek, but it was not unwelcome, just different. He rubbed his palm on the fuzzy stubble, amazed at all the little things he was discovering. Moving on to his neck then his chest, Quatre let his hand travel in between prominent pectorals, down a belly button to journey sideways before resting the hand on his hip. He felt too shy to do anything more, but Trowa did not protest, simply let him do as he wished.

“I’m waiting for some assistance here,” he said, his nervousness leading to partial reluctance. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he at least had something in mind. He just didn’t have the nerve to go through with it.

Trowa immediately repositioned, swinging a leg over him so that he was now directly above him. Quatre’s heart jumped in anticipation.

“I didn’t bring anything,” Trowa said. He leaned down so that his mouth was next to his ear and then said “But I’m sure we could figure something out when we land.”

Quatre didn’t think he could wait that long. It already took this much time to realize he was interested. He slipped a hand inside Trowa’s pajamas and ran his hands on everything he touched. A sight as magnificent as what he saw was surely worth a whole lot more than one Oscar. That prominent jaw, those parted lips, his fluttering eyelids – it was truly something to behold. Quatre’s fingers then hooked itself on his drawstring bottoms. That was as far as it could get.

“Mr. Winner,” an attendant voiced with a knock on the door. “You asked me to remind you when we were a few hours to landing. We’ll have breakfast ready soon.” Noam, who was evidently also up, seemed intent to interrupt as well as he scratched on the door.

There was no way it had been twelve hours yet unless he wasn’t paying attention or maybe the crew was paying _too much_ attention to his activities. He stared at Trowa who simply stared back at him and shrugged. The man grinned at their mischief then kissed him on the cheek.

“Yes, thank you,” Quatre responded casually. “I’ll get ready.”

Trowa continued to stay where he was as he looked at him in question. He clearly wanted to find out what he wanted to do next.

Quatre placed both hands on either side of his cheek.

“Looks like we’re going to hit the drugstore the moment we land,” he said. “Maybe next time, you’ll be more ready for anything.”


	17. Act Seventeen

“Unbelievable!”

Quatre put his hand into his pocket, letting Duo’s outburst finish its course. It would take a while, he knew, since he was now sporting a noticeable gash the length of a pen on his arm. His car keys were somewhere in his pockets, but he couldn’t seem to find them. The adrenaline rush and the trickling blood on his arm were blocking his usually calm thought process.

“A fucking knife! We are filing charges against the motherfucker.”

It didn’t hurt, at least not yet. He didn’t want to look at it until he got to the first aid kit. The keys were just too hard to find with all the distractions. He placed his other hand into his other pocket and hit the jackpot. Depressing the unlock button, he immediately went for the box of bandages in the back compartment. He’d never used the first aid kit before. He hoped not everything in there had expired yet.

“What the fuck, Winner? You don’t need band-aids. You need fucking stitches.”

It was hard to work his non-dominant hand to clean his gash and cover it up. Duo wasn’t helping with his angry ramblings. He noticed for the first time that the gash was deeper than he thought and that Duo was probably right.

“Okay. I’ll get it stitched.” But first he needed Duo to calm down so he too could calm down enough to drive them safely to the hospital. He also needed the paparazzi to get out of the way or he’d be forced to drive over them. He knew they’d come. It was a risk he had to take when going anywhere out with Duo. They loved him and what better way to get high-value photos than to follow him around, waiting for scandal? He gave them scandal, alright, when he went on a lunch outing with his newly-minted gay ‘frenemy’ and got into a fist fight with another patron of the establishment.

“Get out of there. I’m driving.”

“Not with that kind of adrenaline, you’re not.”

“Quatre, for fuck’s sake. I am not the one with a sliced arm.”

He didn’t want to relinquish control to Duo, so he secured the seat belt on himself and placed both hands on the steering wheel. Duo had no choice but to sit on the passenger side.

“We’ll be fine,” he assured then placed the car on reverse. Anyone dumb enough to get in the car’s way when it was backing out would just have to hitch a ride with them to the hospital.

“And you said you were gay,” Duo muttered angrily, crossing his arms in front of him. He made no other arguments about driving the car.

“I never admitted to _anything_.” What a way to find out that he was still attracted to women.

The scuffle may have been his fault, he admitted only to himself. A little bit of flirting with a beautiful lady didn’t used to be that dangerous. He was assured that she didn’t have a significant other waiting on the wings by her gaggle of friends. It wasn’t her boyfriend who attacked him. It was just some beefy guy two tables over who didn’t seem to appreciate what he was doing, for whatever reason, and came up to him with a shove against his shoulder. Duo, who had just finished picking up their order, only watched at first with some sort of amusement. It was when the guy punched him in the gut and let out homophobic slurs that Duo thought to physically show the guy a piece of his mind. The beefy guy came with beefy friends of the sun-kissed surfer variety. It would have been hilarious if he was watching it on TV. He would have played the wimp.

A scuffle broke out along with hoards of cell phone users. He was sure they were all over social media and that Duo would be today’s most talked about hero. While Quatre dodged, unwilling to hurt anyone, Duo wasn’t so nice. He didn’t grow up on the streets without learning how to fight dirty and fight dirty he did against what he considered bigots. The cops weren’t alerted. No. Of course not. It was the paparazzi. They came in droves, just in time to catch what would probably be a perfect picture of him taking damage from a pocket knife that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere – not from the group they were having a fight with, but from an out-of-place guy that just happened to join in. The moment it happened, the fight stopped and the perpetrators high-tailed it out of there.

“I hate to say this, but good thing the paps were there to get a picture of the guy who stabbed you.” Duo calmed down for a bit despite the traffic. A few cars armed with photographers were following them still, but with the windows up, they were able to speak privately. “What happened to Trowa?”

“What happened to him?” he parroted back in the most innocent voice he could muster.

“Are you kidding me? Aren’t you two still seeing each other?”

They were never seeing each other to begin with and they still weren’t. The weekend in Austria was his hedonistic escape from corporate responsibility or at least that was what he told himself. He’d managed to convince even his lucent self that the copious sex was a rebellious Hollywood scandal phase and that nothing more was developing between them. The effortless satisfaction of being around Trowa was manufactured by the media and fabricated by storytellers all over the internet.

“He’s still married.”

“And you still aren’t done reading fan fiction.”

He didn’t bite because that was what Duo wanted. Instead, he brought up the topic he was intending to discuss when he invited Duo out.

“Your father wants to see you.”

It was the fastest way to get a moment of silence. Duo didn’t say anything and looked out the window where the passenger of the next car over got a great head shot.

“Look, Uncle Rich—“

“That’s exactly all he is – _rich_ and not just rich but rich off your money too.”

“It’s been ages.”

“Is he still loving that Winner boardroom job? What am I even asking? I’m sure he is. Do me a favor and kick the bastard out of the board when you take over.”

Quatre could not help but stiffen. Did Duo hear he might be taking over of did he just assume? He didn’t want to verify since it would be the easiest way to give him away. As far as he knew, it was a secret between him and his sister and whoever else she decided to tell. It was too early to tell anyone else unless she wanted to give any opposition time to formulate a plan against his nomination.

“Why now?” Luckily, Duo did not notice his anxiety.

“Age, maybe? He’s getting old so maybe he wants to see his grandchildren?” It wasn’t his job to make excuses for Maxwell senior.

“Relena’s talked to me about this, you know,” Duo suddenly admitted, taking his eyes off the window. “She doesn’t want our kids doing the same thing to us when _we_ get old.”

Relena seemed to be his voice of reason and he silently thanked her for her encouraging preamble, making his job to convince Duo so much easier. He was surprised they even had time to talk and suddenly wondered how, with their busy schedule and the limelight always shining on them, were they able to make their relationship work. Aside from the reunion, he’d never seen them together.

“Does that mean you’ll talk to him?”

“Yes, Quatre, that should have been obvious. Give me his number.”

“He wants to visit.”

There was a lot of cursing. Maybe Duo wasn’t ready for that next step just yet. He stamped his foot on the car repeatedly, making the car jump the slightest bit. It was a suspicious enough action that the people following them took notice. Though there were no sounds coming through, he could imagine the clicks of the cameras and the scenarios going through those imaginative people’s minds.

Quatre did not propose anything else. His job was done. All he had to do was wait for Duo’s response. In the meantime, his shoddy job of patching himself up was showing itself. A splatter of blood dripped down to the gearshift. In the second he took his attention away from the road ahead of him, another vehicle suddenly rammed them from the side. He thought he felt himself fly before the airbags deployed. For a moment, the first thing that entered his mind was if he’d previously checked the car’s IHS safety rating, then a quick glance at a surprised and deathly scared Duo followed by a flash of his life. That all happened within the span of a few seconds. The car slammed back down onto the concrete and back to reality.

His heart was pounding. This time Quatre knew it wasn’t the withdrawal symptoms _or_ the effects of seeing Trowa naked. It was the effects of adrenaline but on another lever, a much higher level.

“Are you alright?” Quatre asked his companion, placing a hand on Duo’s arm before sliding it down to press on the seat belt’s release button. “Duo, are you alright?” he tried again.

“Yes, Winner, yes. I’m fine. I’m fine, but you’re a fucking piece of work. The car hit _your_ side.”

Quatre looked at the indentation of the car’s metal on his left side. It was funny how he didn’t feel any pain as he released his own seat belt and wiped the liquid trickling down his forehead. It was red and sticky. At least they were alive.

“I’ll call you an ambulance,” he said without thinking much about his injured head and reached for his cell phone. For the first time, he was glad he had one.

“Don’t bother, the paps got this,” Duo said, forcing his hand down. “First things first, we’ve got to get out of here before it blows up.”

“This isn’t a movie, Duo.”

“Shut up and slide into my seat after I get out. I doubt your door’s going to open.”

Duo must have been an expert or the events might have just followed his script exactly because only moments after they’d vacated the vehicle, the car burst into flames. It wasn’t extravagant or movie-worthy, but it was flames all the same.

“Holy shit!” Duo said with disbelief at the campfire-sized glow. It was obvious he didn’t believe his own predictions.

“I don’t see the other car.” It was the first thing he noticed, not his car bursting into flames. Heero loved that car. With the time he spent driving it, it was practically his.

“Hit and run,” one of the paparazzo said, coming up to them to check if they were okay. “We called the cops. That was a strong T-bone. I’m surprised you two didn’t get it worse.”

“Did you get the plates?” Quatre asked. He managed to reach for his cell phone before vacating the vehicle and proceeded to call the insurance company.

“Quatre fucking Winner,” Duo said as he watched him dial. “Do _not_ tell me you are calling the insurance company _now_. We almost died. This is the _worst_ time to be a responsible fucking adult.”

Quatre was sure that all this was being caught on tape.

“Yeah, got the plates right here,” one of the other paparazzo said, showing him the image caught on her camera. “It might have been deliberate even.”

The sound of sirens was the sound of heaven to Duo as he knelt on the floor and raised his hands up into the air. It was too overdramatic for him so he chose instead to remain standing where he was, far away from the flaming remains of his car.

The fire department managed to put the fire out immediately. They were lead to the ambulance just as he reported the incident to the insurance company. It was surely a total wreck and there was nothing to do about it at the moment, so in some ways Duo made more sense than him. The cops came next, prepared to do an incident report, as some iodine was applied into his injured head. Duo recapped the events in minute detail, surprising Quatre that he had even been paying attention. To add to the chaos was the TMZ bus that happened to stop right by the incident with tourists excitedly surveying the horror. He thought he heard the tour guide say something about a lucky coincidence coming across celebrities in a car wreck. There was something mentioned about luxury cars and fast driving or something about incidences of celebrities challenging the curvilinear roads of Sunset Boulevard. Quatre wanted to tell them he wasn’t challenging anything. He was just driving and if they could please stop taking pictures and posting it on social media. He was sure his parents would be worried sick.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only tourist bus that passed by. All of a sudden, their accident turned into a safari. Another bus dropped by a few minutes later, being able to bypass the busy cops, to give a viewing of celebrities in the wild. Sure, they were interested in Duo, but they were also interested in him. It wasn’t bad enough that his character was in shambles these days. Add a car accident and all of a sudden he was prime tabloid material.

When the cops finished their interview with Duo, they moved on to him, but he wasn’t as helpful. All he could remember was the blood on the gearshift. He simply did not see the other car coming. He was almost sure it wasn’t his fault. The only doubt came from his minute second look away from the road ahead of him. Even then, he would be looking ahead, not to the left where the other car had come from.

The street was in traffic chaos, that much he could tell from the morbid curiosity of every vehicle slowing down to check what was going on as well as the tour buses that happened to pop out of nowhere. The cops did their best to control traffic. Duo did the best he could for the fans while helping the cops decongest the road. He signed autographs and smiled for selfies as he pleaded with each vehicle to please move along for the sake of the other cars waiting to get through. It worked somehow and Quatre witnessed what he’d always known – Duo’s was brilliant with people.

“Is this cut from hitting the steering wheel?”

“No, an earlier incident,” Quatre said distractedly as Duo called on him to smile for the cameras. Whatever panic he felt post-accident was apparently gone.

“Here. Take these. It will help with the pain later. I can guarantee you it’s going to hurt tonight.”

Quatre took them without thinking, but just as he was about to swallow them, he paused. “What are these?” he questioned.

“Painkillers.”

Painkillers were his biggest enemy. Painkillers meant that he’d be back on drugs and be positive on the drug test he was supposed to take tomorrow. He declined the pills with a shake of his head. He would rather not risk it though the pills called out for him to just take them back. They’d make him feel better and not cause the same addiction problems they always do. It was a bad time to get the cravings. The pills were so close and they were so logical for his situation

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he said as his phone went off. As expected, his mother was on the line. After profusely assuring her of his well-being, he spoke to his father, then a couple of the kids at the house, then got a call from a sister and then another until the ambulance was ready to leave them on the side of the road.

With all the formalities over and the excitement having died down, Quatre called on Heero to pick them up. He declined a ride to the hospital after getting all his stitches in the back of the ambulance and fought off Duo who continually berated him for not taking better care of himself. Heero came not long after on his new Barcelona red Prius. Duo whistled with appreciation.

“Way to get a new, energy-saving car, Heero,” he said and immediately occupied the front seat without asking Quatre. “I was thinking of getting one for the oldest kid.”

“You guys alright?” Heero questioned after they’d secured themselves with the seat belts. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”

“You can tell Quatre that _after_ he calls the insurance company and file the proper paperwork.”

Heero looked at the rear-view mirror to check on him.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“You’ve seen me worse,” Quatre said with a shrug, settling into the back seat. He hoped he wasn’t making a mess of the new upholstery. “Nice car.”

“Considering what happened, it’s a _lot_ better than yours,” Heero retorted.

“Ha _ha_ ,” Quatre responded mirthlessly. Of course, his was now charred beyond recognition. The tow truck had come and gone. It was pointless to even haul it to the yard if it wasn’t the junk yard.

“So Quatre,” Duo said to call back his attention. “After that life or death incident, I’ve decided that I’m willing to have the old man come for a visit with the family.”

Perfect. He had done his job. He was sure his father would be glad to hear that his friend would finally be reunited with his son. All it took was a brawl, causing a bruise to his gut and a flesh wound to his arm and a car accident, causing minor cuts, bruises, a possible concussion, and a totaled car. And he was worried that it was Duo who was going to do him damage.

“You got daddy issues?” Heero questioned, every once in a while checking his rearview mirror. Quatre gave him a look that told him to pay attention to the road instead lest they get into another accident.

“So do _you_ , Yuy,” Duo retorted. “You can’t even use daddy’s name.”

“Daddy’s anglicized stage name is a joke.”

They continued on with their banter while Quatre stayed quiet in the back of the car. Now that he was just sitting, he was able to see the whole day in perspective. What were the chances that he would be attacked with a knife and hit by another car on the same day? Was he unlucky or was somebody trying to kill him? He tried not to let paranoia get the better of him. It was bad enough that he had delicate mental health issues. He didn’t want to add paranoia to that and it made little sense to live in fear. But why on the same day and with Duo with him on both incidents? Was it just coincidence?

He was thinking too hard, he knew, but the cogwheels in his head continued to turn, probably to distract him from what had just happened. He was only slightly rattled, he knew that for sure, but aside from the adrenaline, he was calm, too calm for someone going through something like that. Duo’s reaction had been more reasonable. It was possible that the drug use had numbed his sense of danger and that wasn’t good.

“I still think I should take you guys to the hospital.”

Heero was insistent, but he wouldn’t budge. Duo probably sensed this too. After witnessing him turn down painkillers, Duo seemed more sympathetic to his cause.

“We’ll both be fine,” Duo assured Heero, turning to the back seat to wink at him. Yeah, he got it, but he wasn’t going to play along.

A text message came through after a few minutes. It was Trowa.

“Are you alright? Please be alright,” was his text.

“Yes,” Quatre responded.

“Thank God. I’m sorry I’m texting you and not making a proper call. I’m not allowed to make a call in here. I heard about what happened.”

“Which one?”

“Both. I am going to murder whoever hurt you.”

“No need. He got away.”

“And the car accident?”

“Hit and run.”

“You have no idea how much I want to see you right now.”

Quatre let his phone rest on his lap. He didn’t want to send Trowa the wrong message by responding to that, although it was true that he wanted to see him too.

“Lover boy messaging you?” Duo said as if he could see what was going on in the back.

“Yeah,” Quatre responded because he was not up for being teased. Both his front seat companions were surprised at his unexpected response. Denial took too long.

“You say as little in text as you do in person,” Trowa accused.

Quatre sent a shrug emoticon.

“Hey, if you aren’t otherwise occupied, want to see a dick pic?”

That caught Quatre off-guard and caused him to flush and drop his phone, forgetting his previous anxiety altogether. He’d told Trowa about his influx of lewd, unsolicited text messages and Trowa had laughed at him for getting on the dating apps. It had not just been a laugh. It was roaring laughter for a good five minutes followed by restrained giggles and then more laughter. Quatre was not amused.

“Don’t you dare,” Quatre quickly typed. It was especially risky with the other two around. They might not have seen the screen of his cell phone but they were within viewing range if they chose to look.

“Not like you haven’t seen it yet. Profusely. Over the weekend. In different perspectives.”

Quatre felt like his face was going to explode.

“Let’s start with a half-naked pic,” Trowa continued.

He panicked and placed his phone screen down on his lap. He checked if the two were still busy conversing. They seemed to be talking about Relena, which was interesting due to their shared history and he would have loved to hear more if not for the pervert on his phone. He chanced a look at his phone screen. On it was a shot of Trowa during one of his runway shows dressed only in designer underwear.

“Okay, sorry. I’ll admit I googled that pic,” was the message that came with it.

He muffled his laughter. Somehow that was funny. He sent a ‘ha ha’.

“Now are you prepared for the D?”

Quatre placed a hand over his eyes in shame. He felt like a child.

Trowa sent the same picture, only this time zoomed in on the groin area. It was fuzzy but it was prominent.

“Bawdy,” was Quatre’s one word reply while snickering.

“Stop using vocabulary. This is supposed to be sexy-talk time.”

“Ah, kids these days,” Duo suddenly voiced, effectively cutting off his increasingly indecent thoughts. “Any sweet details you want to share?”

Quatre ignored him before sending Trowa a quick text. It wasn’t the time or place for their conversation.

“I’ll call you when I get home,” he messaged. He really couldn’t wait to get home now.

“You better.”

That was the last message received before Quatre turned his phone off completely. He hoped the rest of the ride home would be relatively incident-free.


	18. Act Eighteen

“Cannes. I’m inviting you to Cannes.”

The film festival. Quatre bit his lower lip. 

“How did you get my number?” 

“Heero Yuy. I met you guys at Buca in Encino – the restaurant. I like to touch blonds.” 

Quatre felt the skin in middle of his forehead wrinkle into a frown. He barely knew the guy and he was asking him out – to a public event that required photographs. All he knew about him was that he was a drummer in a band. He got his invitation a few days ago, but he didn’t think to take anyone with him. 

“You have an album coming out,” he suggested.

“Yeah.” 

Maybe that was it. It was about publicity and since he hadn’t exactly been behaving, he was a hot ticket item. When they talk about him, they talk about his date then talk about the band and the new album. It was okay to talk about the band. What he didn’t like about it was that they had to talk about him. Not that he wasn’t already talking about himself during their press tour, but at least he had some control over the questions. He was jetlagged and couldn’t decide. 

“Are you still going out with Trowa Barton?” 

There was a long answer and a denial in there somewhere, but he kept it short. “No.” 

“Then that settles it.” 

Just like that? He felt like he didn’t even get a chance to think about it. Maybe it was better that way. The heat would move away from his unconfirmed relationship with Trowa. They would talk about someone else he’s supposedly dating then maybe Trowa’s soon-to-be-ex would cool off and stop losing it in public. Maybe the spies would get confused and think twice before reporting the two of them together to the media. Maybe Trowa would be left alone in relative peace. 

“I—“ 

“I’ll pick you up or I’ll meet you there. Either way is fine with me.” 

He definitely wasn’t going to ever date the guy. Quatre didn’t think he’d ever get a word in. 

“I’ll be coming from New York,” he informed. 

“Same. Loved the SNL stint by the way. I didn’t know you could be hilarious.” 

It _had_ been a good show and he had a lot of fun with it. Those were true comedians that had him laughing for a good majority of the taping. He did quite enjoy the parodies as he got to wear those same, silly goggles and revert back to playing a fifteen year-old terrorist inside a massive robot of destruction. They thought it was funny when he reenacted losing his wits and destroying colonies. The guy who played Heero was much too funny that he almost could not keep a straight face. But most of all, making fun of himself on live broadcast was a different kind of liberating. 

Being carted around the world in planes, sleeping in unfamiliar beds and being dolled up every other day for a premier in a different city each time was taxing. In between the press tour, talk shows and warding off rumors about his person, his Winner company projects kept on reminding him that they had to be completed. He was barely home these days and wasn’t going to be for a while. He still had some talk shows lined up. 

“You still with me? Are we meeting up in New York then flying together?” 

“No.” Work would start at the award show if possible, not any time before then. He didn’t feel up to building up any more controversy or answering questions about his date before absolutely necessary. 

“You’re cold,” his future date pointed out before a change of tone. “How are you doing, you know, after the accident?” There was a bit more sympathy this time. 

“Fine. Better.” He had a purpling bruise close to his right hip and wondered how Duo was faring. 

“Not up for talking about it, huh?” 

He didn’t feel like trying to be polite so he answered with honesty. “No.” 

No, because he’d talked about it in the media repeatedly. No, because he’d already reassured his parents of his well-being. No, because he had his suspicions that they simply weren’t ‘accidents’. No, because he didn’t want to be any more paranoid about it than the cops were and no, because Trowa was doing enough of the worrying for them both. 

“Got it,” his future date said with reassuring acquiescence. “I’ll see you in France. Don’t bail on me.” 

“Sure.” 

Pocketing his phone, Quatre made his way to the north wing of the Winner summer house. This week, the boarding school kids were on spring break, making the large household even noisier than usual. His parents were somewhere in Africa, most likely trying to catch a glimpse of the great wildebeest migration. Even more likely, his mother would be trying to urge some big game hunters to stop the needless killing of animals, which Quatre was sure, was going to be only mildly, if at all, successful. He could just imagine his father releasing the petite blonde on them before being admonished for doing so. Few may have been able to resist his mother’s charms, but people tended to do what they wanted to do regardless of the consequences on others. 

“Uncle Quatre.” 

His mother’s doppelganger was on him no more than a few steps later, clinging on his waist to prevent him from going anywhere. Being much taller, he kissed the top of her head. She responded by pulling down on his sweatshirt and getting a good, sizeable pinch on his cheek. 

“You’re so cute, Uncle Quat.” This was coming from his much younger and much cuter grand niece. It was nothing new. Even the toddler this morning was babbling nonsense while pinching his cheeks. He wondered who taught the kids to adopt that habit. 

“What are we doing today?” he questioned. He was on baby-sitting duty, once in a blue moon, during one of the few instances he was in the city and it was just for the day. He had a few talk shows lined up for the rest of the week. Wufei made sure he was keeping up with publicity duties while reducing his load after the recent accident. 

“We’re watching your movie.” 

“Ha ha,” was his dry response. “Not until you guys are thirty you’re not.” 

A random Winner ancestor with an imposing beard was staring down at him from a nicely framed painting high up on the wall. It might have been his great-grandfather, but then he wouldn’t be able to tell for sure. The whole house was almost like a museum, filled with artifacts collected by globetrotting forefathers and foremothers. In comparison, all the trips he’d taken out of the country so far had been work-related.

“Dad’s probably seen it.” Another child of Winner, one of the teenagers this time, came to pluck the blonde still attached to him. Quatre could not help the heat of embarrassment reaching his face. “ _I’ve_ probably seen it,” the teenager continued, mouthing the word ‘pirated’ with a smirk. “Found a date yet, Uncle Quat?” 

 _This_ was one of the few responsible for signing him up for the dating apps. Ever since they found out, they’ve been trying to set him up with a guy, any guy it seemed. The naivety of youth was nice to witness at times, almost as nice as they probably found it to watch him bumbling around with his phone in response to crude messages. 

“Through more traditional methods, yes,” he informed, taking his younger grand-niece by the hand to walk her to the backyard where the rest of the children were. “…just for Cannes.” 

“You mean another proposition from one of your stalkers?” 

It was a strong word, but sounded almost accurate. He seemed to attract the type quite easily, on a criminal level too as a teenager, for being on a popular show. It almost made his father put him under lock and key after the legal system failed them. Ever since Noam was dropped off by a high, coked-up Heero at his front door, begging him to take the puppy in, anyone suspicious had been thwarted. Even as a puppy, Noam was always good at sniffing out suspicious characters. 

“I’d like to think that he wasn’t actually stalking me.” 

“ _He_? You mean you’re _willingly_ coming out to the public?” 

He paused before his foot reached the moist patch of grass outside. He let the little girl go, pushing her to play with her cousins. Post spring shower, it was humid outside, if not a bit stifling. 

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” he admitted. A ball landed on his foot, which he kicked up into the air, bounced off his knee a few times before kicking it back to the kids. It barely missed the Grecian statue next to the patio furniture one of his sisters picked out for the season. The children looked at him like he was in trouble for actually shattering the terrifying sculpture. 

A pair of arms came from behind to encircle his shoulder before a sharp chin landed on his collar bone. 

“You’re ten years too young to question your grand uncle on relationships. Go play with your cousins.” 

“They’re little kids, nan. I’d rather hang with the adults.” 

“Dear Lord, why do these kids have to call me grandma when they call you Uncle Quatre? Go on out there and I don’t want to see you on your phone.” 

“I look a lot younger,” Quatre reasoned with a minute lift of the side of his lip as he watched the teenager usher in some of the unruly kids. “I thought you’d leave me unassisted on babysitting duty.” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you with the kids,” his sister said, landing a peck on his cheek. “I told our parents I wouldn’t let the great grandkids terrorize you while you recovered from injuries.” 

“I didn’t get hurt that bad.” 

“Uh huh. Sure. What about the sliced arm?” 

“Flesh wound.” The cops were checking on both incidents and so far have informed him of their suspicions that they may have been related. He was inclined to believe them. 

“And you’re _still_ doing the rounds with the press?” 

“It’s a job.” 

“Is Anita forcing you to become a responsible adult?” 

Quatre rolled his eyes. They both knew their eldest sister could be a dictator sometimes. “No.” 

“You _do_ know that you could keep your private life private, right?” 

“Not all of it.” 

His young relative brought up a valid point when he mentioned taking another man as his plus one to the film festival. It required planning. It required talking to Wufei about the consequences of coverage. It was going to be publicity for the film but not the kind he liked. In fact, it was exactly the kind he loathed. 

“Are you taking the director?” 

Quatre huffed, shrugging out of her embrace. “ _That_ would be a spectacle.” 

“But you’re taking a guy anyway.” Case in point. That would also be a spectacle though to a lesser degree. “I can see the wheels turning in your head as we speak, Quatre. There doesn’t have to be a plan of attack. Why not just let it be?” 

He frowned. Whatever came out of the gossip columns would surely be damaging. 

“Is this your ‘I’m not a girl slash feminine’ complex again?” 

“It _is_ not!” He felt defensive, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. She was right. He’d always had it as a kid and it never left because people never stopped comparing him to the fairer sex. Having four sisters didn’t help. He didn’t even remember why he agreed to do the movie if it highlighted his lack of manliness. Oh, right. It was because he wanted to prove that he could do it – the acting – in a role that was not merely an extension of who he was. It was a cyclical process, just like the drugs. “I don’t,” he said but didn’t continue. 

His sister let out a deep sigh, putting a hand on her waist and another to cover her eyes. The kids were too busy to care about his existential crisis, screeching as they kicked a ball around. He, too, was once probably just as carefree. 

“You are a good man, baby brother, and I don’t know who put the idea in your head that you have to shoulder the family’s image, but doing that hasn’t done you any good. All it’s done is make you turn to any means possible to help you forget the imagined responsibility. Yes, that includes the drugs and being worked over by a married man.” 

Quatre felt agitated, like he’d just consumed several cups of coffee in one sitting. There was uneasiness there in his recognition that she may have been right. He didn’t know what he wanted to do or who to fall in love with because he was dependent on other people’s judgment. He hid because he was ashamed. He let other people defend him because he believed he didn’t have the balls to do it himself.

“I like Trowa,” he forced out. Yes, there was still some resentment on how that came to be, but he did and he didn’t know why those were the words that came out of his mouth. Perhaps, it was because it was an acknowledgment on his part that admitting he liked another man didn’t mean he wasn’t a man. “But I can live without him,” he said next because he could, because he realized he was still attracted to women and because he didn’t exist solely for the purpose of being Trowa’s Quatre. 

“Because you’re not ready to let people know?” 

“No. Because I’m not ready to forgive everything he did.” But he liked him. Oh, how much he liked feeling content being around him and that was confusing. 

“I can see you over-thinking again,” she noticed, weaving a hand through his hair as if to calm him down. “Being over-analytic is not always a good thing.” She pulled him into another embrace. “What do you want to do?” 

“Get the hell out of the country and leave everything behind for a full year.” Actually, he wanted a break from figuring out what he wanted to do without judgment on what he should be doing at this point in his life. His thirties would be coming to an end before long. 

She laughed, garnering the attention of a number of Winner children, who felt the need to baby him too. He got hugs from all around. “That’s a perfect plan. You have no kids to worry about anyway.” 

He groaned. 

“I didn’t say anything about having to make any or judging you for not having any. Relax. Like I said – over-thinking. You should probably pick-up some relaxation techniques.” 

He surely needed a few right now. The publicity tour was not ending any time soon and Anita’s projects were not disappearing, which reminded him that her resolution to have him take over the family company may have had something to do with him being attacked – by someone who didn’t want him there. But he probably wanted that too – the company. It was another source of anxiety. As if the dalliance with Trowa wasn’t bad enough already. 

“You lot have way too many kids anyway,” Quatre murmured. Kids were crammed into him at all angles save for the teenagers who were far too old to be caught as part of the group hug. If he thought about it, he was actually lucky to have that many people backing him. 

When the kids’ attention span called them back to the backyard due to the older kids having fun on their own, Quatre was once again on a one-on-one with his sister, who didn’t fail to ask one of the more important questions. 

“How is self-rehab going?” she asked distractedly, as if she was too embarrassed to bring it up. She knew about his drug use before anyone else in the family ever did. In fact, she’d urged him to seek professional help, but as the youngest of his sisters, she didn’t feel the initiative to take charge. Quatre felt bad about making her feel guilty about that too. 

“Progressing,” he responded. He was doing a lot better compared to all previous attempts, but he didn’t want to jinx himself. Though the cravings were still there, happening during his most depressing moments, the withdrawal symptoms were more forgiving. Besides, he was too busy with engagements to even think about purchasing any or being caught in a foreign country with something that was clearly illegal and prosecutable. 

“You could be more specific,” she pressed, directing her eyes to the kids who ran past them to the inside of the house. Neither one of them bothered asking where the miniature family members were going when one of the nannies appeared to catch them. Quatre thought he heard something about swimming in the beach and shivered. It was still too cold that time of year. 

“It hasn’t been pleasant,” he responded. Trowa admitting his own struggles with alcohol despite his successes gave him reassurance that he wasn’t the only one struggling. It gave him less of an excuse to hole himself up inside his LA condo claiming he couldn’t function in normal society. “I’m seriously regretting every single time I fell back into it. It’s embarrassing that the kids know about it.” 

“Better that they learn from _good_ example, meaning you being able to give it up completely,” she said, grabbing her phone from her pocket after it made a chirping sound. She snorted when she got a view of the message. “Looks like the great grandkids taught our parents how to do a proper selfie.” 

Quatre couldn’t help but laugh when his parents’ ecstatic faces came into view. It was an excellent photo, alright, with all the proper angles and lighting. Sandwiched between their faces was an awkwardly chewing giraffe. It looked disinterested in its far too enthusiastic spectators. 

“You look like mom,” his sister pointed out not for the first time in his life. 

He did and begrudgingly looked just as pretty as she did too. He’d always wanted to look as manly and as capable as his father. The gene distribution just wasn’t to be and for a quick moment, he admonished himself for not appreciating the features his own mother gave him. Maybe, despite all his protests, they were right for him. They made him look trustworthy and approachable. They made him attractive to Trowa Barton. 

“They look like they’re enjoying themselves,” Quatre said instead of responding to her comparison. His parents seemed like they trusted him to keep it together and to act like a responsible adult while they were away. There were so many other things they could have done instead of having faith in him. 

Amidst the screeching and the kids reappearing and running circles around them sporting swimwear and all kinds of flotation devices, he wondered if maybe that was just a little too much faith. He silently thanked Wufei for scheduling something for him for the rest of the week.


End file.
